A Dreamer and An Artist
by FilledWithHope
Summary: A short story of how Dream met Ink and how they became the start of the Star Sanses. Full of quirky comedy, exciting encounters, & a few feels. It gives a peek into the origin stories of some main Protectors and Destroyers at the start of a new age in the Multiverse. It's not a ship, but it's saturated with friendship, and my personal favorite brOTP of all time. Hope you enjoy! 3
1. Forward

Hello my dear Smol Sparrows!

I'm dropping in to give a quick update and bring you a surprise! I'm sorry I've been gone. I was posting relatively regularly there for a while, but don't fear— it isn't going to be another two-year wait. I've been dealing with some pretty serious health issues. That's often why I disappear. I'm not giving up on a story, I'm just not able to post. But I have been writing all along.

Thus, I bring you a surprise, a story: A Dreamer and An Artist! [Desc. at bottom]

If you are a faithful reader of HopeTale, and you're up to Season 2, I recommend pausing that and reading this, or reading them together; it will add depth, especially from around chapter 20~ and after. Let me know if it makes you smile, or laugh, or cry a little. I'm so excited to bring you this short story. Yes, shocker, I wrote something short. It's 10 chapters and they're shorter than my typical chapter length.

I'll stop rambling and wish you happy reading!

If you read this far, thank you! I bless you with a gummy worm ~~'. Follow to join the SmolSparrowSquad! Stay hopeful, be inspired, and don't give up. Your story has yet to be told 3

~FilledWithHope

A Dreamer and An Artist is a short recounting of how Dream met Ink and how they became the start of the Star Sanses. It's a short read full of quirky comedy, exciting encounters, a few feels. It gives a peek into the origin stories of some main Protectors and Destroyers at the start of a new age in the Multiverse. It's not a ship, but it's saturated with friendship, and my personal favorite brOTP of all time. (If you don't know what brOTP is, you should go check the urban dictionary.)

I hope you enjoy the story, and I can't wait to see you all at the end!


	2. Chapter 1- A Very Important Pencil

This is how I met the Artist

I'd been wandering for a long time. Running, before that, crying all the way. Now I walked, making scarcely a sound. Where was I going? I didn't know. What was I going to do next? Take another step, I supposed. Why was I still moving onwards? Because for no reason or logic apparent to me, I just... had to. So I wandered further through the endless white expanse. The Void was haunting. There was no sound here. Not a speck of color in sight. After so much grey and black, the white had burned my eyes for a time. But at least it was safe and empty here.

Eventually, I saw something. A grey dot. Initially, I thought my mind was tricking me. There was nothing here. The speck was only an illusion of my lonely imagination, inventing false hope. My feet steered towards it anyway. Then I felt something, just as I turned towards the spot.

Words cannot accurately describe such a feeling. It was as a lone firefly, flashing once into the still, dark night, then falling silent again. An abandoned, dying beacon, a last attempt, a weak pulse of light. My feet sped slightly, waiting for that next flicker. There was nothing. Yet, somehow, that tiny blip of dim light was enough to light up my darkness. That dot might not be an illusion. There was something— or could it be, _someone_?!— here. Walk. Trot. Hurry. Run. The dot grew bigger and clearer. The size... it was a person, it had to be! I had no idea what it meant but I ran.

Slowing as I approached, my feet grew quiet, then stopped when I was a couple yards away.

It was so... pitiful.

I could scarcely make out any details. It was thickly slathered with blotches upon splashes upon buckets of paint, caked over every inch of its body and over its clothes, to the point that I could barely make the creature out. It knelt, slouched over, staring lifelessly down at its limp hands, motionless on its lap. The hands held something. The person didn't appear to be breathing. The only clue that it might be alive was that I saw it blink once, slow and sluggish. Its attention was locked on whatever it held. Something very important, doubtlessly.

I took a careful, quiet step forward, longing desperately to say hello yet also afraid of disturbing this strange lump of a person. It didn't look up. Closer still. I could see now layers in the paint; the layers on top faintly held color, faded and dripping together, beginning to crumble. The bottom layers were slate grey. Grey like the stone. _Is this person... trapped, also? _ I took one more step; I was in its field of vision now. Slowly, so slowly, it lifted its head. Something inside me seized up when its listless eyes met mine. They were merely empty voids with dim, weakly flickering white circles. There was nothing there. _Soulless_.

A flake of paint fell at the tiny motion, landing in his lap— for yes, it appeared to be a _he_, and a skeleton monster like me— and my attention landed with it.

He held a stubby, worn-down pencil. I blinked at it. Nothing special. The eraser was long gone, the wooden coating splintered away, and the tip was broken. No writing with that. I reevaluated my silent companion. The paint. The extremely rag-tag apparel, from what I could see, made from bits of mismatching outfits: different shoes, knees covered in multi-colored patches, sleeves rolled to different lengths. From around his neck sagged a saturated scarf, the ends limp beside him. And if I looked closely at the ground around, I could make out the faintest of fading designs scrawled in crumbling paint crumbs or wooden rubbings. I saw the tiny graphite tip cradled in his palm.

His hollow, sad eyes never left mine as I inspected this oddity. I finally met his gaze again, beginning to see.

He was...an artist...? That pencil was special to him, wasn't it?

It broke my heart to see such an existence, without life, without joy! I was a rare case, soulless yet emotional and vibrant. Based on his behavior, he had likely _always _been empty. He'd probably never known happiness, and probably never would. I couldn't fix this soulless being. But... I could fix a pencil.

I dug in my pockets. Ah, in one, a crumpled candy wrapper. Thin, but paper nonetheless. And— a pen. I could scarcely believe it, let alone contain the little spark of hope now growing within me. Kneeling before the soulless being, I slid the wrapper and pen towards him. He didn't move. He just looked at my unusual offering. Picking up the pen, I turned the wrapper over and made a tiny mark in the corner— see, it works like your pencil. His face changed, ever so slightly. I flipped the wrapper over and held the pen out. He looked at it. Carefully, slowly, I reached out and placed it in front of him. Carefully, slowly, he picked it up. I had made the trade before he saw it; he was too busy lazily pulling senseless scribbles across the tiny square of makeshift canvas.

Unclipping the clasp on my cape, I turned the edge of the badge and vigorously scraped the end of the pencil against it. The artist suddenly realized I had his pencil. He turned his complete attention to me, the most attentive I'd seen him yet. Concerned, fearful, sad. Turning and sanding and rubbing, until finally— I could see the graphite tip. I smiled at it, then turned my smile to him and held out his prized possession. His blank eyes were bound to that stick of wood. He was positively frozen, petrified.

"Don't worry," I encouraged gently. He seemed to twitch a tiny bit at the sound of my voice. "I fixed it."

When he didn't move, I slowly reached forward and slipped the treasure into his hand. He stared down at it, amazed and puzzled, which barely calculated to a millimeter of facial movement. He pulled his eyes back to me. Blinked slowly. His fingers twitched. He could go back to his scribbles. But, oddly, he didn't look away. And amazingly, beyond all laws or logic or reason— empty white drops slid down the paint coating his unmoving cheeks, slipping from his unblinking eyes. And suddenly, I was overcome.

I had been so lonely. I had been longing for someone to come take care of me, wipe my sorrows away and tell me it would all work out in the end. Maybe it was just my loneliness speaking. Maybe it was pointless. But that wasn't important. Because suddenly, all I saw in that empty, hollow gaze was everything that mattered.

"It's going to be alright," I whispered through brimming tears, hands trembling to wipe away his own. "It's all going to turn out fine," I assured, and slowly, gently, leaned forward and embraced the paint-caked artist. "You won't be alone anymore; I'm here."

He didn't move. He didn't flinch or stiffen or soften. But then— I felt his arms tense. Time froze in its tracks, waiting to see what would happen. Was he waking up? His hands lifted, hovering in indecision. I scarcely dared to breathe. This was impossible. They drooped again. I just held on. He twitched. A tiny flicker over his shoulder caught my eye. A pulse of dim light. I didn't understand. I just knew to hold on. The hands twitched again. Budding cotton-ball clouds of color and light began to grow outward from the artist. Now they began to swirl. His arms moved, again. Fell, again. The churning light and color quickened.

As the dull expanse about burst into pure white with blooming flashes of rainbow, the storm flinging itself across the sky and turning to peaceful clouds of floating color, the artist melted in my embrace. And I felt his hands slowly, hesitantly, gently copy mine.

A dreamer and an artist became friends. Sounds like the start of a joke. But it was the start of a whole new life.


	3. Chapter 2- A Mother Hen & a Scatterbrain

I awoke with a living statue leaning over me.

Blank eyes blinked at me, waiting concernedly. I blinked back, wondering if I was still asleep. Then I remembered.

"Hello there," I tried hesitantly, pushing myself up and shaking the last of the dreamland from my mind. When he didn't say anything, I observed— "Glad you woke up… sleep well?"

Indeed, I was very glad he was up. He had been asleep for quite a while, long enough for me to grow weary and doze off too, apparently. I had begun to feel concerned he may never wake. Time didn't seem to pass in this place, but I'd estimated perhaps two to three days since he'd given me that blank stare. Except, it wasn't totally blank this time.

"He… hello," he mimicked carefully, trying out this word; it was the first time he'd spoken. He nodded to himself. "Hello," he greeted, a bit more fluently this time. I felt myself smile, oddly happy at this.

"What's your name?" I asked, secretly feeling a growing anticipation. I couldn't really explain it, and— and again, perhaps it was just my long isolation talking— I felt like we were old friends, from another lifetime, reintroducing again. This was important, wildly impossible, and curious beyond imagination. The artist tipped his head to the side, thoughtfully pondering this question.

"Ink," he finally stated. _Ink. _That resonated, too, as though something clicked into place inside me where it belonged.

"My name's Dream. It's lovely to meet you!" I exclaimed, realizing and hoping too late that my enthusiasm wouldn't startle this gentle artistic creature. Thankfully, he didn't spook. In fact, it seemed my reply had the same effect on him. Ink gaped wide-eyed at me for a moment, considerably interested in my response.

"Dream…?" He considered this new information. Then he glanced to the side, inspecting the tiny wood shavings of his pencil. He went back to neutral. "I like it," he decided. I blinked at him.

"Pardon?" I asked, surprised he had said something of his own accord; creatures who were born soulless could rarely speak, and scarcely beyond copying what they had heard.

"Pretty name," Ink clarified while gathering the tiny scrapings into a little pile and began to organize them into wandering lines.

"Thank you," I replied, smiling again. "I like yours, too. It's artistic." The tiniest flicker in Ink's eye lights made me think he appreciated this comment.

"Art," he mused to himself, then temporarily snapped his attention back to me. "Oh," he said, then searched around where he was sitting. A moment later, he snatched the candy wrapper from the ground and held it out to me. "For you!"

Surprised, I took it— and my surprise turned to astonishment. What had been mere aimless lines had somehow been morphed into intricate, detailed designs. How had he managed such a masterpiece on a waxy post-it-sized scrap? I forced my gaze up to find his, waiting expectantly for my verdict.

"It's splendid!" I breathed, glancing back down at it. "Truly, I can't take this from you, it's too beautiful."

"S'nothin," Ink admitted casually, now glancing around at the fluffy color drifting overhead. "You should keep. I can make some others." _With what supplies, though? _I wondered.

"Thank you," I relented. I was about to tuck the tiny canvas into my pocket when Ink made an indiscernible mutter of approval. I glanced at the artist in time to watch him comically crane his neck as far back as it would go, dedicatedly watching a particular wisp of cotton-candy color-cloud.

"Cerulean teal," he observed. "Boysenberry outline, s' pretty."

This artist was so puzzling, and I'd only known him for a couple minutes! He was shockingly sentient for a soulless being. Scattered beyond reason, but sentient nonetheless. Was he actually soulless…? While Ink was distracted by the blue and purple cloud, I sent light pinging magic to search for a soul. But then he turned back before I could find out. I hastily hid the summery glow away, worried he had sensed my magic. Either he hadn't, or he didn't care, for he calmly declared—

"I like it here best," with a nod of finality. _Best? _I pondered. _As contrasted with where, I wonder?_

"Where's your home?" I asked. Ink's expression remained completely unchanged. No reply. "Ink…?" I prompted. He blinked, waking from his daze.

"Mm?"

"Where is your home? Where'd you come from?" I retried. Ink looked around. Right, left.

"Dunno," he admitted. That was odd. He seemed to come to the same conclusion and looked around again, squinting into the expanse, searching; perhaps he hoped he could see his house from here.

I took this opportunity to probe for his soul again; I had enough time. And, yes, he was definitely soulless. But oddly, something repelled my magic. I fought to hide my confused frown. _What is that?_ Some unusual magical force lingered around his chest. It vaguely resembled soul energy, but it was dormant. Since I couldn't ping it, there was no way to understand what it was. Despite the lumpiness of the cakes of paint, I made out that he was wearing some sort of sash. Unidentifiable rivets were set along it in neat intervals. I couldn't imagine what it might be, but I was pretty sure that must be the source of the magic.

I had many questions about this quirky artist. The more I talked with Ink, the more I began to worry he was misplaced from where he belonged. He seemed lost. It was certainly fortunate I had found him. Could I figure out where he came from and get him home, despite his amnesia? He was very unique from most Sanses I'd ever met. Maybe the strange sash held a clue as to who he was, where he came from.

"Dunno," Ink suddenly reiterated, breaking me from my thoughts. I realized he meant he still hadn't figured which way home was.

"That's fine. I'm sure you'll remember some time," I encouraged. I decided to try a different avenue. "Now, what's all this?" I asked, indicating the plastered, crumbly paint, not sure what else to comment about the bizarre attribute. Ink considered my question.

"The colors." He looked around at the endless white expanse beyond the small color storm lingering above us. "They're far away, don't know where." Ink gingerly brushed his fingers over the cracking layers. "All gone now. No good, all scratchy." He considered this conclusion. "Feel things. It's nice."

I blinked confusedly. That was near gibberish. But I figured it must somehow have something to do with feeling emotion, based on the plastic expressions Ink now tried out, testing a smile, a frown, a light scowl. It fell neutral. Ink shook his head, then shrugged.

"Feel stuff," he affirmed. I reevaluated him.

"Well… if it's no good, why not clean it off?" I prompted. Ink glanced at his paint shell. After nearly a full minute of silence, he gave a painfully slow nod. I smiled lightly. "Okay." Another long pause ensued. He wasn't doing anything. Puzzling. "Well?"

Ink finally wiggled his hand a little, a few flakes fluttering free, promptly distracting him. Wide-eyed, he childishly traced lines through the little dusting in front of him.

Typically, I have considerable patience. Waiting rarely phased me. "Trees grow and rivers run," Mother always said, "there is no rush. We shall get there some day." Yes, long-suffering was good. But at this rate, we'd be sitting here, suffering, for a very long time.

"Here, want some help?" I offered, though he didn't have much of a choice in the matter.

"Oh," Ink murmured a few seconds after the comment, "thanks."

Pulling Ink's wrist to straighten his arm, I brushed my glove over the stale grey coat. Most of it peeled off with a single swipe, crumbling away in a dusty pile around him. He greatly appreciated this, patting the ground and watching it cloud back into the air, making even more of a mess. The artist then began constructing a small tower with the larger chunks and flakes. Then it fell.

Meanwhile, I was making wonderful progress. I had just found the edge of his sleeve and was nearing the bones in his forearm. I blinked. Brushed over again. Scrubbed harder with my glove. Ink squirmed a little. I stopped rubbing. There were intricate, swirly black lines across the spot I'd cleaned off. Strange, but pretty. Turning his arm and rubbing more, I found the lines continued. This artist was full of surprises.

I soon concluded this adult child was going to need a bath. There was no way I could get all the mess cleaned off. But I did what I could, and after working a full circle around him, I could see the person beneath the paint.

Coming back around to check out the sash, I noticed there was a smudge of black across Ink's right cheek; I fought the sudden urge to try and rub it clean, but something inside me sensed it wouldn't come off. It looked permanent. But the second development was far more interesting. The artist's eyes had a touch of color in them. He was blinking at me. There was actual emotion in his face. Curiosity, anticipation, a touch of happiness.

"Oh," I murmured, suddenly a little excited. "Hello, you look…"

"Happy…?" Ink murmured, perhaps to himself. A grin twitched at his face. He tried a half one, then a full smile; he smiled brightly at me. Smiled!

I was baffled at how this could be possible. Then, I reconsidered the grey flakes everywhere, over my hands. When I'd hugged Ink, he'd hugged me back. When I got near to him, he started talking to me. After I'd patted the paint off him, he gained emotion? _I didn't used to be able to do that, _I pondered in amazement, _make people happy by simply being near them. Did the golden apple…?_ I turned my attention back to Ink. He seemed considerably excited about this taste of emotion. It wasn't exactly _his_. It was artificial and temporary. But he was smiling. Maybe I could find a way to make that permanent.

He suddenly turned his gaze up and giggled in delight. I followed his line of sight and gasped. The color clouds had grown exponentially, in both size and number. I glanced around, watching as new, smaller ones flourished into existence before my very eyes. They went from drifting to darting, chasing each other in a game of dance.

"What is this place?" I breathed, realizing it must somehow be tied to Ink. Ink evidently heard my question and took it upon himself to discover the answer. He stood and wandered an aimless squiggly loop around me, pondering all the way.

"Hmm…" he murmured to himself, tapping his chin and tipping his head as if to listen or think very, very hard. A sudden spark of revelation lit in his face. "The DOODLE Sphere!" he exclaimed happily, a bubbly giggle emphasizing his elation as he swung his arms wide and spun.

He must have been imagining a field of soft flowers, or clouds, or a pile of autumn leaves. But he was sorely disappointed as he completed his little twirl and then flopped backwards to the ground. A surprised yelp accompanied the _thud_. Hints of indignant, childish tears tinted his eyes.

"That _hurt…!_" he lamented pitifully. I probably should have frowned, but I couldn't help but giggle.

"Come here," I offered with an empathetic sigh. "I can fix it." He got his feet under him, swaying slightly as he made his way over.

"That hurt," he reminded, sitting in front of me.

"Think about your surroundings before you do something dangerous," I encouraged, still lightly chuckling. I pulled off my glove and carefully patted a hand aglow with healing magic over the blotchy rainbow bruise. Once again, a bizarre discovery: he had a magical response to pain. That wasn't common in soulless born creatures. "If I may ask, what exactly are you?" I asked as he happily wiggled back to face me.

"Skeleton, I think," Ink said, possibly uncertain. He then inspected his hands and frowned. "What _am _I…?" he murmured, disconcerted. I fought another chuckle.

"No, I mean, what are you, magically? You don't have a physical soul, but you don't act as such. You're pretty smart and social for a soulless being."

"Hmm…" Ink pondered, smiling absently to himself. "Soul? Soul…" His expression twitched, the smile now seemingly frozen rather than real. "I think I destroyed it," he admitted ditzyly.

"What!?" I gasped, deeply concerned. "Why?" Such an act could have _killed_ him! Surely he wouldn't— was… was that _why _he had…?

"Don't wanna be forgotten," Ink said, a lopsided mix of a frown and a grin, unsure how he was feeling. His mood was preserved by the lingering excitement, despite the distressed tears now welling behind his eyes. "Plenty of time now! Cause being forgotten, that— I'd coulda never be okeydokey then. But I'll never tell a living—" he suddenly snickered. "I'll never tell a living soul!" This pun, considering the conversation, was a little morbid.

I couldn't understand what being forgotten had to do with destroying his own soul. Something like that took a phenomenal amount of determination to survive! Or, extreme fear. _Fear...?_ I considered this. _He's afraid of being forgotten. But how does that—_ I figured it out. Soulless beings were age immortal. He was afraid of living an empty, lonely life, stuck in this empty void, then dying and fading into oblivion, never to be known or cared about. Now he had time to make his mark and make friends, people who would miss him if he disappeared. _He's terrified of being alone, _I noted. _He destroyed his own soul to prevent it._

The moment of lucid honesty came to an abrupt end as Ink suddenly shook his head rather vigorously, tipped it at me, and asked—

"What were we talking about?" Apart from the fact he appeared to have completely forgotten the past ten or so seconds, he seemed more aware than he had been.

"Oh, nothing in particular," I redirected carefully. Ink glanced around, re-discovering there was nothing for as far as the eye could see, and then turned his attention to himself.

"Cool," he murmured, pulling a strangely proportioned paintbrush from the edge of his belt. "Forgot I have this. I love this thing." Twirling it nimbly between his hands, he grinned slightly and held it out to me. "Look!" I took it from him, not sure what kind of response he was fishing for.

"It's very… artsy," I tried.

"It's the biggest brush I have!— though I suppose I only have two," he considered, playing with the other smaller one connected to the loop. I weighed the paintbrush in my hand, suddenly interested. It was abnormally light, considering it was nearly a foot long. What an awkward brush to paint with, surely. Did Ink even have any paint?

I glanced back at him. The vials tied to the mysterious sash were colorful. Probably paint. And, secondly, speaking of paint, I'd looked up just in time to witness Ink boredly stick a stale grey cake-flake in his mouth; he was already chewing on another handful.

"_INK!" _Ink jumped and yelped at my exclamation. "What are you doing!? Spit that out!" I insisted urgently. Ink frowned slightly at me.

"But I'm hungry," he complained, cheeks still stuffed.

"Out, _now!_"

He hesitantly spat it out. He then spent me an upset glance.

"What was that for? That was really good pai—"

"Paint has dangerous chemicals in it. You shouldn't try to eat things that aren't edible," I explained, standing and motioning for him to follow, amazed I had to actually explain this concept. Good thing I noticed before he could swallow the stuff. "If you're hungry, we can go find _real _food, silly." Disconcerted, Ink frowned, glanced down at himself.

"But, like, I'm fine…?"

"Food also tastes better," I insisted, opening a portal and pulling him through before he could get distracted with the swirly light. "Come on!"


	4. Chapter 3- Of Paint, Petals, and Pizza

We touched down in a haven world. My grip on Ink's arm wasn't needed; he landed on his feet with effortless balance. I wondered if he had used portal travel before. Immediately, my childish companion got distracted by the pine needles on the side of the path, and the white clouds in the blue sky, and a honey bee flying by. He needed a leash.

The good news was that I had found two gold coins in the depths of my pockets. The bad news was that this could only buy a bag of Tem Flakes— basically paper scraps— which was little better than Ink's attempted meal. This could be remedied, though. We could find a way to earn some more money. Berries and herbs could be sold at a market, and I knew many by sight. I could find them easily along a treeline. Plus, speaking of the outdoors, a dip in a lake would sweep the rest of the paint dust away, and the afternoon summer sun would have us dry in no time. Thus, I'd chosen to aim for the open meadows and forests. Either we'd find enough berries to suffice for lunch, or I'd gather enough tradable material along the road to the market. Sounded simple enough. But I was beginning to learn very little was simple when it came to this ditzy artist.

"Dream! I found stuff!" I glanced up from my findings as my companion scampered towards me. I blinked at his offering.

"Ink, that's… that's not food, either." Ink looked rather confused for a moment, but then returned to his absent minded grin as he re-inspected his loot.

After jumping in a river and wringing the heaviness from our clothes, we found an open meadow on the far bank and scoured the bordering bushes. While I had returned with a few handfuls of thyme, lilac, blueberries, and raspberries rolling around in the fold of my shirt, Ink had returned with an armful of miscellaneous colorful stuff. A cluster of wildflowers tickled under his nose if he looked down too far, and unfortunately he seemed to be eyeing them. I hoped he only thought them pretty, not appetizing. A rosy quarts stone was tucked in the crook of his arm. A stick with a pinecone dangling from its twig threatened to snap and roll away, and a bunch of switchgrass swayed in the breeze. Finally, a discarded page of a newspaper was bunched in his fist. He appeared elated. At least it made him happy. I glanced back towards the road.

"I guess we should head for town," I admitted, wishing we could have found a bit more. I turned back to find Ink chewing on a daisy. "_Ink!"_ He spat it out.

Thus began our trip to town. Perhaps this weird inability to discern food was what had stunted this tiny skeleton's growth. Now that we were standing side-by-side, it was shockingly blatant Ink was more than half-a-foot shorter than I was. I had to keep reminding myself he was an adult and not to treat him like a child, but truth be told, I was starting to question my assumption.

About half an hour passed in near uneventfulness. After conversing with the merchants and managing to acquire three more gold coins, I decided I must be in a far, far corner of the Alternate Universes. I didn't recognize any names. Though I had never traveled them, my tutor had taught me as far as the edge of the fourth quadrant of the Multiverse. Quantum Universe Portal Laws had been confusing at first, and I had wished I could have visited the worlds whose names I had instead memorized, but now I was thankful for the education. _I didn't realize the universes stretched so far out. I don't know this quadrant at all, _I pondered, assessing the few tradable items I had left. _I suppose I either ran too far, or… Night…?— _My thoughts were forgotten.

Where was Ink?

I called, ran up and down the path, searched between vendor huts. No artist to be found. Those twenty-some seconds felt like years. Then I finally found him. My flare of gratitude snuffed out in a wave of horror. There, in the opening of a dead-end alley, sitting cross-legged atop a wiggling, swearing, pinned human, was Ink, calmly brushing dirt from a small notebook, which he now began flipping through.

"Why did you have to throw it away so meanly? What are all these scratchy lines?" he muttered, monotone, to himself, or perhaps to his prisoner. "They aren't very symmetrical. Abstract, perhaps?"

"Ink!" I gasped in dismay, "What did you do?!"

Just as I was about to intervene, a bunny monster came sprinting around the corner at an impressive speed. Her attire told me she was likely a shop owner, her haste informed me this was important, and her expression warned she was ready to battle.

"Hey, stop! Thief—!" She stopped, a heavy sigh of relief painting her face as she took in the scene. "You… caught him," she observed, a mixture of impressed and grateful. Ink blinked at her.

"This human is very rude," my artist friend observed, distractedly getting up and releasing the cornered human, occupied with the pages of the notebook he'd found.

I reassessed the situation. The human was wearing mostly black, save for the deep maroon hoodie hiding his face. A glint of gold slipped from the fallen sack a foot away. And, as a uniformed peace-keeper skidded in behind the bunny, I saw the look of desperation in his eyes as he jumped to his feet, glancing between the four of us.

"Got him! Good work, Hazel. That's the third time, right?" The handcuffs came out. "I'll take him down to—" I saw the glint of the hidden knife.

I don't know what happened. I just acted on instinct. A flurry of motion later, I found myself atop the attacker, his wrist in my grip and twisted behind his back. I kicked the fallen blade a harmless distance away.

"Now, aggravated assault— on a Keeper of the Peace, I might add— would only incur added punishment," I pointed out. "Resisting arrest is also a punishable offense," I informed my struggling prisoner while handing him over to the Keeper. "I advise returning the stolen goods and confessing; your chances of a reduced sentence, or mere community service, would increase," I concluded with a smile meant to encourage forgiveness and cooperation. Instead it earned another dirty word and an impressive spit-wad aimed in Ink's direction. He nimbly sprang away, then curiously crouched to inspect this strange spot on the pavement.

"How did he _do_ that?" Ink murmured, bewildered. Based on the way he screwed up his face, I guessed he was about to try and mimic the action.

"Time to go," I interrupted, pulling his arm towards the street.

"Wait!" the bunny, whose name I guessed to be Hazel, called. We both looked back.

"Please, come back to my family's shop so they can thank you." I was about to make my excuses when Ink held up the notebook.

"This art isn't very skilled," he admitted, "but it makes for some cool abstract lines I guess."

Turns out the notebook was nothing special, just a waiter's order scratchbook Ink had mistaken for a sketchbook. Yes, _waiter's _scratchbook. Hazel's family owned a diner. And despite my best efforts, they insisted on lunch, the week's special. I was inwardly grateful for their persistence; it was doubtful we'd have been able to afford more than an apple by the end of the day.

Perhaps a poor choice of words, considering all that had happened.

"Ink," I whispered. He glanced up from gnawing on the edge of his red fork. I shook my head at him. Half-frowning, disappointed, he slowly lowered the utensil.

"So, where are you two from, anyway?" Hazel asked. "You from the same universe? Family?" I returned my smile to her across the table.

"No, we are from different universes," I replied. "Truthfully, it is all rather a long story," I admitted with a sheepish chuckle and grin. "Ink and I only recently banded together, until we each find a new, permanent, safer home. We both are far from where we belong. We are not fugitives of crime, I assure you!" I quickly added. "Rather, see—"

"Oh, no, of course!" Hazel exclaimed, leaning back and smiling faintly. "I didn't see your badges, but I suspected. You must be from the Protectorate! That explains the unique outfits I guess. And those fighting skills!" I frowned slightly, pondering. I didn't know this word.

"Protectorate…?" I pondered. "Apologies, but I'm not sure what you're talking about," I admitted. Hazel's face screwed up in confusion.

"You don't?" she balked. "Wow, uh… I guess you really are far from home. Well, the Protectorate is what we collectively call the Protectors. They're like the Peace Keepers we have here, but they're actually guardians for the whole Multiverse. You know them by their Delta Rune badges; it's the sign of a promise to defend and help the weak. Whenever an Alternate Universe is in need of help, they come and fight to save it! These days, they are the only ones who can stand against the Destroyers."

"Destroyers?" I balked. "There haven't been organized enemies of the Multiverse for over four centuries!" Hazel's eyebrows went up.

"Very, _very_ far away," she murmured. "No," she then corrected, addressing me again, "they've become a real problem. For an eon. The Protectorate brought an end to the Dark Days only a couple decades ago." Hazel reevaluated us. "You really should consider joining them."

"It certainly sounds to be an honorable mission. They must be exceptionally courageous and skilled— of which I am neither," I admitted. "I am not much one for fighting. And, Ink—" Ink was currently distractedly gnawing on his fork again, frowning, disgruntled that he couldn't seem to do anything to his indestructible opponent. I sighed nervously. "We're not exactly a formidable foe, but I appreciate the compliment."

"Well," Hazel countered, "You sure handled that thief professionally, both in taking him down and that speech. You could be a peace negotiator. Where'd you learn to be so eloquent and smart, anyway?"

I managed to hold the twitch from my suddenly plastic smile. What could I say? _"Oh, yes, I'm actually a prince!" _Truth be told, I didn't really know what I was doing, with Ink, the thief, or even delegating. I was only repeating the things Mother always said and mimicking my teachers. I had to keep a brave face on.

"Thank you very much," I said, managing to pull the smile back up properly. "I have a good family to thank for my upbringing. They taught me well."

Ink stopped chewing on his cutlery to give this statement a moment of consideration; I hadn't realized he'd been listening. But before he could add his two cents, or continue his pointless battle, a waiter brought lunch. Pizza, being a human, American food, had not been a regular meal when I was growing up. But it was wonderful, that I remembered, and I grinned.

"Here, try this," I encouraged, gently prying the fork from the Artist's aggressive grasp and sliding his portion of the pizza onto the plate before him. He considered the strange, floppy triangle of dough and sauce in front of him. "Thank you, Hazel. You really didn't have to do this for us."

"It's the _least_ I could do! Thank you for helping catch—"

"Mm, um-hmm, yeah," Ink murmured past a mouthful, "Pizza tastes _much_ better than paint," he concluded happily to himself, interrupting this exchange. Hazel giggled.

"What?" she balked, tickled.

"Please ignore him," I chuckled bashfully, secretly trying not to laugh myself.

_What a lovely afternoon, _my thoughts whispered. I let out the cheerful laugh.


	5. Chapter 4- Old Home, New Home

The rest of the afternoon was just as wonderful. The sunshine and the clouds, the calls of the merchants and laughter of the people, the wildflowers and the bird songs… it evoked the sense of a night's horrors being drowned and forgotten in bright morning sunbeams. It was akin to exchanging frightful fantasies for a lovely reality. It wasn't hard to tell myself all was well.

Dusk fell. Ink chased the fireflies with disproportionate childish delight. I smiled up at the waking stars. But upon evening settling, and discovering Ink was considerably ill at ease in the dark, I decided a nap beneath the sky would have to wait.

Back in the Doodle Sphere, all was silent.

I'd been keeping myself so busy minding Ink I'd managed to ignore the past few days. But now Ink was asleep beside me, again, so soon. Considering how long he'd slept the first time, I guessed it would probably be a while before he woke. So I had nothing to distract me from worried thoughts of Night.

_Keep busy, and sorrows and fears will fade away on their own, _I reminded myself. Yes, it was a good rule of thumb to distract yourself from hardships that could not be changed. I glanced back at Ink. He was still curled in such a way that I couldn't inspect that mysterious paint sash. But I noticed, there, threatening to slip from his pocket, stuck the crumpled newspaper page he'd found on the side of the road. I hadn't realized he had kept it. Pulling its corner, I carefully slid it free and un-crumpled it. _Perhaps there's a crossword, _I mused hopefully, flipping it from one side to the other. My eyes scanned down the wording—

The date.

My entire existence stopped. My breath stuck in my throat, a heavy lump I couldn't swallow. No, it couldn't be. Truly, it couldn't. But, the worlds. Protectorate, the Destroyers. Dark Days. Centuries, centuries… Eon?

I staggered to my feet. The page slipped from my numb fingers and fluttered to the ground. No, it wasn't. I couldn't think. _Home. _I was lunging through a portal before I realized I had summoned magic. _I have to get home…! _The winds of light and glittering color blurred past me. I blamed my anxiety for the unusually long journey. Surely it was just my mind being impatient. It would still be there. All would be well, it was just a nightmare—

Everything… was gone.

The air was hollow. Darkness hung over the horizon. A dead, empty breeze sighed a lonely greeting to its lost prince as a mixture of ash, dust, and crumbled mud brushed past my ankles. My knees trembled. The sensation worked its way up till it coaxed tears to bubble up. I feebly fought them back. _Mother, _broken thoughts whispered. _The tree. Tree. Mom._

My feet stumbled over the path, which had cracked dramatically and resettled into a treacherously uneven wasteland. I tripped twice. Fell once. I didn't know which way. Not for sure. I scarcely recognized the maimed landscape. I didn't dare look closely at the devastated homes along the way. Collapsed farmhouses and cottages. Splintered heaps that were once merchants' boxes or a treehouse. It was all gone. _Gone._

Ahead. A hill. Could it be? No. Couldn't. There was nothing on top of it. But my feet ran anyway. _Mom. _A cry slipped free as I stumbled, bashing my shins and elbows as I tumbled. The brittle grass disintegrated beneath me; the stones were happy to catch my fall. I wasted no more than a second as I struggled upright and hurried towards the answer. _No. Please. Please, no. _I was almost to the top. _Please don't be. _I reached as high as I could and grasped the edge of the overhang above me. _Please don't be my hill. _Trembling with effort, I managed to haul myself up over the ledge and looked up.

A broken stump crowned the center of the barren clearing.

My numb feet carried me a few more staggering steps before failing. I collapsed to the dust, clung weakly to the edges of the wood, and wept. Mournful wails and sobs were muffled in my shaking arms. This couldn't be it. How. How? How had it ended here!? Nothing, _nothing _could have prepared me for such devastating sorrow. The last threads to my previous, precious life snapped. The golden memories crumbled, turned to ash under the withering heat of despair. It was _all _gone. _They _were gone.

Whimpers of the names of each of my friends fell over the splintered remnants of the dear tree that I had called mother, the tree that gave me life. Night— my beloved brother— was gone. The world had turned on him, and he struck back. He won and destroyed all we had held dear. _All because of me._

_What do I do? What have I done…?! _I pushed back the trembling horror as it fought to smother me. _This is all my fault, truly, I did this—! No, I have to fix it! How… How?! What do I do? _Sobs crippled my thoughts. I'd already wept more than I had ever sniffled in my entire life thus far. It was only the beginning. It hit me; it had been over an eon. I had been trapped in the stone prison for over an eon. The sobs nearly choked me this time. Everyone I had ever known and loved was dead. I didn't know what to do. Where should I turn? What point was there?! _What would… Mom do…? _

A whisper of a shaky melody timidly tiptoed over the shattered edges of my mind. _"Count your many blessings… name them one by one… when you're feeling down, sing this song, and find a smile to fix your frown…"_

A good start. Yes, be thankful. I stifled down the tears to try and think straight. _I am thankful for… for…! _There was a flicker in my mind. There was more to that song. I couldn't recall. What were the lyrics? Why couldn't I remember? I shook my head, tears still escaping. _Focus, come on! I am thankful… I am glad for…! Grateful for… That…_

_… __I'm alive…?_

I sobbed.

Why me? Why couldn't mother have lived? My amazing friends, the whole world— what about dear brother? It would have been better if _I _had been the one to… if I… had died…

…

_I am thankful for Ink._

At this thought, my head lifted slightly. _Yes. I am glad I found Ink. _I wiped half my face dry, reducing a whimper to a sniffle. _Yes, purpose. I have some purpose in my life. Being his friend is important. He needs a friend, someone to look out for him. He… needs me! I matter to somebody. _I hadn't realized I had stood until my feet stumbled slightly. I rubbed the tears from my eyes. _He needs me. I have to go back. _My gaze didn't want to pull away, to leave the broken shards of my home I wanted to cling to.

But, there was somewhere else I had to be.

When my toes tapped gently down into the Doodle Sphere, fear and concern hit me like a punch. Ink. He was balled up on the ground, his tiny body shaking with each soundless sob as he curled tighter in on himself. My composure twisted into a tight knot. I couldn't find any words until I had raced to his side, lifted the limp art child upright, and gently gripped and shook his shoulders.

"Ink...!" I exclaimed, fighting tears of my own once again. "Why are you upset?! Are you hurt?" Incoherent cries, which sounded distantly like my name, were muffled in his hands. "Ink, what's happened?" I begged.

"But… _why_…?!" Ink gasped out behind his fingers.

"Why, what, Ink?" I prompted.

"Why would you…! Why would you come back?!"

I confess, for a few seconds, my mind fumbled with these words, unable to grasp them. Did he not… want me here?

"Wh— Why…?" I stammered.

"Why would you leave home?! Why come back here?" Ink exclaimed. "Or, or—! Or to that nice place with flowers and, and people, and food! And! And, sky—" A few seconds were lost in hyperventilating attempts to catch his breath. "I'm used to being alone. You should go home," he suggested mournfully, "there is color there, and, happy people! Good people there! Good to you, good to you! You, you have a home, a fa… fami…" he broke down sobbing again, positively inconsolable. "Not sleepy, but just waited, and, and, I was right— you were gone… decided to go back home," he finally whispered.

I couldn't comprehend. I couldn't absorb this rush of selfless sorrow exhibited by this empty, soulless child. I could scarcely keep the tremble out of my arms as I pulled him close and wrapped them around him. Ink did not know how to handle this gesture. I sensed he longed to return the hug yet didn't dare get attached, taste hope, or let himself be loved.

"It's alright, Ink," I soothed, a few golden tears painting my smiling face. "I did go home. But I came back," I explained simply. "I don't live there anymore." Ink positively jumped, as if stuck with a pin.

"B-But…! But WHY—?!"

"It's better here. With you." Now the artist was completely baffled. He tried stuttering a sentence or five, but could never quite seem to string his words together. "We're friends. I'm not going to leave you alone."

His trembling stopped so suddenly. He slowly but stubbornly pulled back, and letting him go, I found huge, tearful eyes gaping at me.

"I… have a friend?" he murmured numbly, shocked senseless. I smiled brightly at him.

"Yes, you do! The first of many more!" Colorful tears brimmed in the artist's eyes.

"Really…? Really truly?" he breathed, the sprinkles of spectrum slipping free.

"Truly," I assured. His gaze widened even further, the rainbow rivers re-soaking his cheeks. Sighing, I grabbed the edge of my cape and gently dried them from his face. "Please. Forget all this. Don't mourn over sorrows that I promise will never happen." The torrents thinned a little. Ink nodded slowly, looking determined to be brave, but then, whether from relief or lingering fear, the tears started falling again. If he kept this up, I'd end up in a similar state. "You mustn't cry any more now," I coaxed gently, "and _never_ again on my account. Stop crying, and then I have something that will make you feel better!" Ink sniffled.

"What is it?" he asked, still a mix of heartbroken and overjoyed. I smiled, helping dry the rest of the sorrow away.

"Come on," I encouraged, pulling him up and with me through a portal. _I'll show you._

Our feet touched down in the thick, emerald grass, the low-sprawling oak trees' leaves rustling softly above. I smiled. _I am so thankful this world is still okay. _It was an unfinished, long-forgotten, empty universe. No one lived here. It was close to home, and was the only AU I'd traveled to when I was young. Night and I had discovered it. We used to play here when we were little. And, particularly, I was thankful for the special sky here…

"Come along," I coaxed, pulling Ink's hand so he wouldn't get distracted or trip over a mossy stone, "just this way." Following the path lined with dandelions and daisies, still growing in the peaceful forest, I found the way out to the edge of the peak. Stopping in the clearing, the edge of the lush crag, I turned and grinned at Ink, who glanced around, confused. "Look up," I said, unable to keep the happy laugh out of my voice. He looked up.

I believe I will remember his awestruck gasp and gaze of wonder until the end of time, to replay on sad days and smile about. Ink's eyes sparkled with amazement as he gaped up at the sky, bursting with the most vibrant of colors and twinkling with the richest of stars, all at once. The hues of both sunrise and sunset painted the edges of the horizons in all directions, flowing up into the sky like ribbons, shimmering slivers like that of the Arora Borealis. Throughout the few, wispy, glimmering silver and gold clouds floating peacefully by, thousands of constellations could be seen glittering through the light. It was perpetually both day and night here, always beautiful, always shining.

My gaze was fixed on the sky, so I didn't notice Ink flop back until I heard the _thud_. Thankfully, the soft earth and grassy carpet caught him much more kindly than the empty ground of the Doodle Sphere. I chuckled lightly, sitting beside him, then lying back in the green, too.

"Isn't it lovely?"

"Abso-posi-lutely…!"

I couldn't smother down the giggles. Apparently, it was contagious; after a few seconds, Ink began to giggle, too, a bubbly, mischievous sound with an occasional muffled snort of delight. This, in turn, tickled me even more, and then Ink, until neither of us were quite sure what we were laughing about. Then, out of the blue, Ink turned a bright, wide smile my way, and happily declared—

"You're the bestest, most fun friend I've ever-ever had, Dream!" He then looked thoughtful, adding, "I don't think I've had any others before." Ink suddenly beamed again and reiterated— "That still makes you the best!" I pulled my chuckles under control.

"That's quite an honor, Ink" I replied. After a moment of thought, I concluded— "I do believe you're my best friend, too." Ink turned his complete attention on me, now, eyes wide and sincere.

"No way…" he breathed. "No, you're super-duper nice and cool. You must have lots of friends, way nicer and cooler than me." I sighed, amazed once again how someone with no soul could have so much heart.

"Well, other than you, I don't have any friends anymore," I answered. Ink gaped at me, positively baffled and deeply distressed. "Don't worry; it's fine!" I quickly assured. "Simply… I had to go away for a long time," I explained, "and, when I came back… they were all gone." Ink stared at me, looking burdened.

"No, that's… so awful sad…" Suddenly, wide-eyed and urgently sincere, he exclaimed— "I'll be your friend! You're fantastic! Everyone should wanna be friends with you! You should never have to be alone!" I couldn't suppress the chuckle. We'd already been through this.

"I'm quite honored, Ink," I answered for the second time. "You're the best." Ink beamed wide, and happily declared—

"We'll be first and best friends together, then!"

Yes, this was a new start for both of us. _I am thankful for second chances._


	6. Chapter 5- A Lover, Not a Fighter

There ended the story of the life of a prince. Now, I was somebody new. Who that was, I was not yet sure. I couldn't change the past that brought me here, but maybe that was okay. Most days, life was peaceful. Other days were an adventure.

Ink's mysterious sash still radiated soul-like magic, but I had yet to closely inspect it, for, he hadn't slept for about a _month_. He seemed fine, but it was bizarre and borderline concerning. And, yes. It had in fact occurred to me that I could simply _ask_ him about the lacking-a-soul situation— save for two reasons holding me back. I didn't want to seem nosey, and mainly, the memory of his disturbing reaction to my initial questions on the subject. I decided to give it time and silent observation.

Before long, I scrounged together enough gold to get Ink a sketchbook so he'd stop drawing on my cape, his arm, the ground, and generally everything else meant to be left undecorated. He was disproportionately elated; it occurred to me he'd never owned one before. Already his skills were infinitely improved and downright stunning.

Also, apparently, Ink could travel the AUs. He was even somewhat of an expert on them. My guess was that he had wandered the Multiverse until he got lost in the Void and ran out of emotion. He enjoyed frolicking from world to world, meticulously drawing each along his way and educating me of each wonderful, quirky characteristic of the AU. I began to place the universes in my mental map, overwriting the galaxy I once knew. I had yet to come across a world I recognized from the old days.

Making new acquaintances, taking care of Ink, having picnics beside lakes and adventures across unexplored worlds… I could almost ignore the past. I couldn't forget, but it began to fade. Yet, eventually, my mistakes caught up with me.

"… really quite boggling. And! In this world, Toriel has an evil identical _twin_. A twin!"

"Really?" I asked, my tone that of affirmation and intrigue. "Can you tell them apart?"

"Only barely," Ink explained, kicking playfully through a snowdrift on the path to Snowdin town, marked out only by the dense trees on either side. "The mean one is likely to offer you monster candy on sight, whereas the nice one has a pet snail named Benedict, who she always consults before offering snacks." He considered this. "What a weird name for a snail," he murmured, coaxing a chuckle from me.

He took a quick moment to retrieve a smooth pebble from the snow, probably to paint later. I trotted around the bend, a mere foot ahead of him, and stopped shocked in my tracks. My breath caught. My mind seized up. _No. _I took a shaky step back. _Not here, not now…! _The doom sank in as I heard the artist sprint to catch back up to me, and call—

"… Look, Dream! Isn't it pretty?" His stone slipped from his hand as, frozen, he gaped with widening, fearful eyes. At Ink's call, _he _turned. Night. Or, Nightmare. Whoever he was now— my _brother._

Our eyes met. For a moment, nothing happened. I could scarcely quell my apprehension. But he sensed it anyway. And he smiled at me, the most chilling, ill-willed expression of hate in his eyes I'd ever seen.

"Dream," he greeted, voice saturated with venom as he shifted the four massive, black-dripping tentacles behind his back in anticipation. "I was beginning to wonder if I'd find you again. I thought another Destroyer would get to you first and steal the pleasure."

Ink, who I had managed to push behind me, shuddered at the sound of this shadowy figure's voice, at the appearance of this tar-like version of Classic Sans engaging his friend; a muffled, stressed whimper slipped past his fingers. Nightmare noticed him.

"Why, hello there, little one," he coaxed, tone sickly sweet and sinister. "What's your name?"

"Don't answer," I warned under my breath. I doubted I needed to tell him; Ink was scared speechless. Nightmare chuckled darkly.

"Dream, wherever did you find such an odd child? I see he trusts you," he added, leveling his gaze at Ink, who was now peaking around from behind me. "Is it fun?" Nightmare asked, guiding the question my way, "to play Protector? To protect him? Don't be a fool; you can't keep anyone safe." Another whimper trembled through the thin air. Nightmare was getting in Ink's head.

"Listen," I said, talking to Ink, careful to keep the tremor out of my voice, "everything is alright." My colorful friend forced his wide, fearful eyes to fix on me, struggling to resist the drawing temptation to look back at Nightmare. "I've fought him before. I can handle this just fine," I assured, omitting the details of our last fight's unpleasant outcome. "Go find that nice Toriel and get some monster candy for us, okay? Then head on back home, and I'll join you in a few minutes."

"B-but…!" Ink stammered, "To leave y-you, no, n-no I wouldn't—"

"I will be fine," I insisted, kindly but firmly. "Do not worry. Go on now. I'll come for you soon." When he didn't move, I admitted, "I can't fight him and protect you at the same time. That's all." This seemed to click slightly with Ink. Still, he hesitated. "Now. Go, and don't look back," I ordered. "Run."

He didn't want to leave. I couldn't risk opening a portal to the Doodle Sphere so dangerously close to Nightmare. If he followed us back there, we'd be killed for sure. But just as I feared I'd have to do it anyway, the artist suddenly bolted.

And the battle began.

In a split second, I summoned my sky blue staff, topped with glowing stars on either end, and desperately swung across the path Ink had taken as a sharpened spike of tar shot after him. The air folded into itself to form a gold wall. Both projectile and shield shattered.

"Night!" I called, jumping as a tentacle swiped out to knock my feet from beneath me. "Stop! You needn't fight! I don't want to—" My plea was put on hold as I scrambled to evade new attacks— all honed on me, this time.

"You don't want to, what, Dream?" Nightmare taunted, truly testing my agility as he rained down bone spikes and black shafts. "Fight? Get hurt? Hurt _me?_" He laughed darkly as one of the attacks engraved a rift into my arm.

"I don't want to fight _you!_" I insisted, staying solely on the defensive. "You know me, Night. I have never wished you harm. I'm not a threat!" I rolled to evade the blast of a dark Gaster Blaster— a weapon even I did not have. I was out of my depth and I knew it. "This isn't you. Just let me help!"

"What are you gonna do, give me a hug?" He suddenly disappeared in a puddle of shadow. I nearly leapt out of my boots as I heard behind me— "Would that make me feel better?" I barely managed to teleport the short distance to avoid getting skewered. I'd forgotten he could now shadow hop. And with all the shadows in the dense treeline, there was nowhere to hide.

"No, but we can figure this out together." The spinning of my staff saved me from a volley of spikes. "I won't let you get hurt. I won't let anyone hurt you!" My nerves got in the way and I took a few more hits. "Please, Night, stop! _We're family!_"

Suddenly, he stopped. For a moment, he was completely still. He stared at me, almost blankly, lightly surprised.

"Oh…?" he murmured. Hope sparked through me.

"Yes. Night, you're my brother. I'm on your side." The tentacles slowly lowered to the ground, resting limply there.

"Brother…?" The hope surged brighter.

"Yes! Remember? We've had a lovely life, happy at home, so many friends! You being the best!" He still watched, listening. I slowly let my staff dissolve. "I promise, I won't hurt—"

I was dangling a yard from the ground, chest threatening to cave in and arms pinned tightly at my sides before I could blink. Nightmare laughed heartily, terrifyingly. His bright, glaring electric blue left eye flashed at me eagerly as his deadly grin widened.

"I can't believe you actually…!" He laughed harder. "You're so gullible!"

"Night, please!" I beseeched, struggling against the iron grip. "We're brothers—!"

"Night's dead, remember?" he interrupted, smiling darkly. I couldn't reply. "So… that makes us just enemies," he concluded.

The tentacles tightened. I lost feeling in my now heavy-tipped toes. Horror shot through my mind. The stone.

"No, no, Night, please, listen!" My kicking feet went dead. It was nearly to my knees. "Don't do this—!" I smothered down a cry as I felt the crushing pressure around my shoulders force one of them out of joint.

I couldn't cry out. I couldn't risk Ink hearing me. He mustn't know I'd been caught. He had to run. He wouldn't survive this enemy. I struggled frantically, trying to break free. It was possible I wouldn't survive, either. Golden tears were suddenly streaming down my face.

"Night, I know you're still there. Listen to me...! Brother—"

The tar suddenly found its way through my clothes and washed into my chest, expanding and hardening where my soul would be. Gripping, crushing fears invaded my mind. Tears came faster, fleeing from the irrational, unconquerable fear taking over my consciousness. _Help… please…! Someone, please, save me, please…! _

"Come on," Nightmare goaded, "don't you want your friend to come save you? It would be a shame for him to miss this." I managed to shake my head, keeping my trembling mouth tightly shut. So that's why I wasn't dead yet. He wanted Ink, too. Nightmare suddenly wrapped and snapped a bone in my arm. I barely choked down the scream. He wanted Ink to come back. But I wouldn't let him take my friend.

My frantic, searching gaze temporarily locked onto Nightmare's. Time seemed to slow. He blinked at me. I blinked back. Then anger washed across his face. A thick, strong tentacle suddenly whipped around my neck and pushed back, rendering me unable to look at him.

The stone was up my spine. In a handful of seconds, I would lose my last chance. I strained to push back, trembling against the force around my throat. As time ran out, I managed to push my head forward just enough, look my broken brother in the eyes one more time, and despite everything, smiled forgivingly past my tears and whispered—

"I… still… love you…"

The tentacle tightened. The danger of my voice betraying me was snuffed out as the stone finally made its way up my ribs, rendering me unable to breathe. A low growl slipped past Nightmare's clenched teeth. Awareness was slipping away. In a few seconds, I'd be gone. _Night… forgive me. Ink… I'm so sorry. I love you both…_

A tremendous blow jolted the tentacles holding me. The one around my neck whipped off, swatting out at the source. I couldn't catch what was happening. An angry growl of pain and frustration explained the second tentacle now pulling off me to take care of the interruption. The stone slowed, Nightmare's distraction buying me a few more precious seconds. My eyes made out splotches of blurred motion and color. _No_. _No, please don't be. _My sight came back into a fuzzy focus. It was Ink. Horror hit me like an icy snowball. _Ink! Please, _I beseeched desperately, _don't let him die, don't let this happen…!_

Suddenly I was dropped. Ink dove to catch me, only managing to break my fall as we collided. He was calling my name frantically. Noise was so distant. All I could see was sickening, churning kaleidoscopic scrambles of reality. The tiniest bit of stone began to recede. But Ink was gone again, fighting off our doom.

I focused all I could and struggled against the dark, determined to break free of this curse in time. Little lines of slate began dusting off me, centimeter by centimeter. It was down to my shoulders. I struggled to get a glimpse of the fight. I couldn't understand what the sounds of battle meant. All I could do was combat the darkness and hope Ink would escape.

Suddenly the artist was back. He strained to drag me away to safety, far too small for such a task, hauling a person normally bigger and heavier than him, but now turned to stone. He seemed to realize this. But he stubbornly held on regardless. I couldn't speak, I couldn't demand he flee. I managed to make out the wideness of his eyes as he looked beyond me. He swung some large, thick staff looking object. A loud, wet slap sound shocked almost above me. A soft snap. A loud thud beside my legs.

In a moment of reprieve, Ink swung the weapon to his back, knelt behind me, did his best to wriggle me up a bit, wrapped his arms in a death-grip around my shoulders, and digging his heels into the dirt, leaned back as far and hard as he could. Just as we fell through the portal, through the warping in my hearing, I made out the frightful threat—

"I'm sure _He_ will be very interested to hear about you, _little_ _Artist!_"

We fell through space.


	7. Chapter 6- A Faithful Friend

We crash-landed back into the Doodle Sphere. Considering Ink was so tiny, having me land atop him probably hurt— not to mention I was mostly a solid stone statue now. But it didn't faze him. He flailed from the heap with surprising strength, rolled me onto my back, grabbed my hurt forearm, and exploded with a storm of psychedelic magic. It was so strong and intense that my whole arm soaked up the light and radiated rainbow all the way up to my dislocated shoulder.

Noticing said injury, Ink's grip tightened, he squeezed his eyes shut, and lightly jerked. There was no chance such a tentative effort could help. But to my surprise, my shoulder cooperated, unnaturally clicking straight back into place. It hurt, but shockingly far, far less than it should have. Upon discovering his healing magic couldn't fix the stone, however, Ink's composure broke. He panicked.

I tried to talk to him, to tell him I was alright and not to be scared, but I still couldn't bring sound into the words I mouthed. He hadn't noticed I was trying to communicate. Instead, he frantically patted my arm, brushing at my clothes, even pulling out his secondary, tiny paintbrush and tried to sweep away the stone. Upon successfully cleaning away the tiny layer that had just dusted off me, he fervently devoted himself to scrubbing the rest of the stone away, as if it was akin to the grey paint I'd once brushed off him. His efforts didn't actually do any good.

Whether two minutes or twenty passed, I'm not sure, but eventually the stone receded below my ribs, and finally sucking in a breath, I exclaimed—

"Ink! Don't worry, I'm alrig—" My words were promptly cut off by a joyous, surprised gasp and a painfully tight embrace. The hug nearly did me in. "Ink," I wheezed, "I don't bend that way yet…!" He set me down.

"You're okay, you're alive! You're not dead! You're good now!" Ink exclaimed in a rush, then suddenly buried a brief sob in his hands. "Lime leaping lizards… you're _alive_…" He peaked through his fingers, fear in his gaze, eyeing the remaining stone. "Dream…" he wheezed again, "that's not normal…! I think I messed up, Dream, what should I do?! You know things! I don't know how to fix— that's a _lot _of bad paint, like, _cement_—!"

"Just give it time," I insisted, finally able to push myself up partially. "It fixes itself. The stone goes away after a while. It's alright Ink, you didn't do anything wrong. Everything's alright," I assured, and then, only as I said it did it sink in— "You coming back for me saved my life."

I blinked at him. My breath stuck. Ink tipped his head at me slightly as I went rigid. _Don't cry. You have to be brave. Don't you dare cry in front of Ink. _I sat trembling, fighting the horrid urge. A gold glimmer of tears began to blur the corners of my sight. I lowered my head, gritting my teeth and trying to keep from blinking; if one slipped free, the rest would doubtlessly follow. Distantly, I heard Ink rummaging for something, patting his pockets and shaking his scarf. Then, in my peripheral vision, a glint of bright red caught my attention.

"She would only give me one piece," Ink admitted, "but it's okay; you should have this one!" He held the red candy out a bit further. "It'll make you feel better," he added. My eyes widened when I noticed the wrapper. It was an apple caramel.

_Don't cry. Don't you dare cry in front of Ink. Don't…! _I pulled my friend into a hug and cried.

"You… saved me," I whispered, knowing if it was any louder it would come out as a sob. "You saved my life…!"

"I kinda almost didn't, ya know," Ink murmured, still trying to figure out how to return the affection while his arms were somewhat pinned to his sides.

"But you _did. _ Against _Nightmare, _how? How did you do it?"

"Umm… not quite sure, actually," Ink admitted. My eyes went wide as apples themselves when I opened them, catching glimpse over Ink's shoulder, what was behind him.

"With that...?" I guessed.

"I have no idea how I'm supposed to paint with it anymore," Ink murmured. "I think this means I'm down to one?"

The weird paintbrush had expanded dramatically. It was nearly as long as Ink was tall and thicker than his arm. Where the deep spruce brown wood met the sweeping, bushy soft-bristles, a silver metal plate wrapped seamlessly around the shaft, and at the far end, a thinner circlet of the same material reflected back the vague light all around. It was magnificent.

"It would seem so," I breathed numbly, and assured— "We can get some new brushes for you, Ink. I think… this one's actually a weapon…"

Finally convincing myself to release my rescuer, I reached for the bizarre brush, gaping dumbfounded at it as I turned it over in my trembling hands. I quickly rubbed the back of one over my face. No more tears, not now. I shouldn't have cried at all.

"Did you know?" I asked, meaning, did he know that he had such a weapon, and how to fight with it, but Ink's scattered mind interpreted the question differently.

"Yeah, I heard you." I dragged my gaze back to the artist.

"What do you mean?"

"I heard you, calling for help. I figured you were in trouble." I gaped at him.

"I did not call," I insisted. Ink considered this.

"Well… it wasn't exactly _hearing_, I suppose. I just… I knew you needed me to come back." He suddenly donned a fierce, determined expression of bravery. "If that bad guy ever shows up again, I'll whack him! I'll protect you this time," Ink decided with a nod of finality.

"You shouldn't have disobeyed me," I chided, only half-heartedly. "I told you to go home, where you'd be safe. You must never do anything like that again. You could have been killed." Ink gave a surprised blink, flinching back slightly, staring at me, flabbergasted. Then he frowned.

"You're not my mother," he grumbled, "and you certainly wouldn't be around to pretend as such if you were dead," he declared defiantly, scowling at me rather comically. "Don't be stupid, I'll save you again next time, too." I blinked wide, surprised eyes at him.

"How dare… why, you…!"

Ink was soon stuck between a frown and a confused, empathetic chuckle as I broke down and laughed the rest of the sorrow away. Alright. I supposed I could forgive him. More than that! I could really trust him. We were in this together.


	8. Chapter 7- Cracks and Cave-ins

Within a matter of minutes, the giant paintbrush was the source of endless entertainment. Ink was especially amused with the purple. He raced around, coating stuff with it and snapping his fingers; the paint would then morph into either plaster, a bubblegum-like sticky wad, or lead— which he'd used to save me from Nightmare. Initially, I had to go barefoot for about an hour, since Ink had accidentally glued my boots to the floor. Thankfully, he eventually figured out how to dissolve the stuff.

The three morph skills seemed oddly specific; I wondered if the other colors would reveal more unique abilities. But I didn't suggest Ink try them just yet. I hoped he would go back to doodling and chattering about AUs. It was safer. But already, he wanted to go to a universe to try this magic on a subject other than me and himself. I tried to distract him, but we couldn't stay in the Doodle Sphere indefinitely. I eventually gave in. Through all Ink's excited frolicking and wild painting, his tree climbing and snowman building, I didn't let my guard down.

I was careful to keep him out of sight and out of mischief. I was so, _so_ thankful, beyond words, he had survived— even _I'd _survived. It was a miracle. And I wanted it to stay that way. I didn't know what Nightmare's cryptic threat could have meant. But it could only mean trouble for us. For _Ink. _Just because he chose to save me. I was afraid of the consequences.

The silver lining was, my worries and fears only plagued me for a few days. Mushroom cloud: they weren't vague anymore.

"Why here, Ink?" I asked, following close behind him as he wandered the Ruins of another AU. He seemed oddly intent on something but was too distracted to explain what had him so preoccupied.

"Bad shatter, cracky-crackle crush. Something's wonky." _How odd, _I pondered to myself. _He only talks scattered gibberish when something's got him frazzled. _I glanced around. No red flags.

"What's bad?" I prompted.

"Breaking things," he murmured. For a few seconds, I froze in my tracks, mind suddenly churning at a sense of danger. _Breaking things…? What does that have to do with "something's wonky"? Something's wrong… breaking things? Does he sense someone being destructive—_

Destructive. Destroyer. My breath caught. There must be a Destroyer nearby. _I have to get Ink out of here…!_

"No, wait!" I exclaimed, dashing after my friend.

He'd just turned the corner. I couldn't see him. Coming to a skidding stop around the wall, I grabbed his arm, vying for his attention. He wouldn't pay me any mind. His gaze was fixed ahead.

"_Hey," _he ordered slowly, firmly, concentrated and serious. "Cut that out."

I looked up. My eye lights shrank. My grip on Ink's arm tightened. Ahead, beyond the withered tree, beyond the ruined doorway of the quaint home of the Caretaker, stood another Sans. Black bones, black apparel. Even before I noticed the dust beyond him— he had killed Toriel— I knew. I knew what he was. And unfortunately, he glanced back at Ink's call. He saw us. The blue and yellow rings in his blood red eyes shrank.

"Destroyer!" I breathed, panic shaking my voice. I tugged hard at Ink. But to my baffled horror, he stubbornly refused to budge.

Through red-rimmed glasses, the Destroyer blinked at Ink and I, pausing his shredding of the books that had spilt from a toppled bookshelf. Blue strings dissolved from his red and yellow fingertips as he set the ruined encyclopedia down, now fully turning, eyeing Ink. He actually appeared somewhat timid, unsure. The striking image of primary blue streaks stained beneath his eyes. Were they… tears? Was he sad? Maybe he was just hurting or scared. Was he really a Destroyer? But then, he noticed me behind Ink.

"WoAh, yOU're…?" Binary flickered around him. His eyes flashed. "_YOu'rE_ DrEaM?" He scoffed. "HehE," the brief, glitchy chuckle reverberated in the thinning air, "yOu'RE wAy SisSIeR tHan I imAGinED." My courage dropped. _Nightmare sent him. _Ink, at this comment, lost his cool.

"You're super rude!" he scolded agitatedly, scowling. "Don't call Dream sissy! He's my friend and he's way super cool!" I nearly wheezed out loud.

"Don't argue with him, Ink," I whispered urgently, "we gotta get out of here!" He still wouldn't budge. Stubborn, stubborn child. The Destroyer's eyes widened at Ink, seemingly surprised. Then he laughed darkly.

"'_ThE LiTtlE ArTiST'…" _he breathed, the slow words dripping and burning into my mind. "It iS YoU, iSN't iT? YoU lOoK mORe liKe a HoBo, HaHA!" It seemed, for a moment, Ink almost relaxed a little, his face softening slightly.

"Artist…" he murmured, thinking to himself. "The Artist." A grin tugged at his face. "I rather like it," he concluded quietly. Then, returning his attention to the Destroyer, he tipped his head. "Yup, suppose that's me," Ink admitted, "But the name's actually Ink. Who are you? And why are you destroying stuff? It's rude and you need to stop. And I'm not a hobo! You are actually extra rude."

I could barely swallow the sickening feeling this unsettling introduction was bringing on. It felt like a fever dream, delirium and fear, uncertainty. The edges of the Destroyer's mouth had been twitching up slightly, slowly growing, and could now be categorized as a grin. He chuckled again, softly, getting louder as it echoed around.

"ErROr," the Destroyer replied, a smile like a vicious wolf accompanying. His name repeated, freakishly multiplying and shedding static, shaking me down to my last nerve. I would never forget that sound. I tugged desperately on Ink.

"Please," I begged my friend, "Ink! You have to come, now!" Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Error slip his glasses off— removing the last illusion that he was safe— and zip them into his pocket. "Ink, he's gonna attack!" Ink didn't budge. I started to panic. "He will kill you!"

"Dream says you'd fight," Ink called, quenching the last hope of escape. "You wouldn't really, right?" Ink asked, confused at the concept of needless violence. "We should just talk n' stuff."

There was nothing I could do to get Ink to safety. Error's psychotic eyes filled with "ERROR" signs. They cleared. He smiled.

I suddenly changed from tugging to shoving. Just as I pushed my friend, a beam of primary blue threads shot through the air at the speed of a bullet, just grazing my shoulder as I followed Ink to the ground. It would have shattered his head.

"Ink!" I exclaimed, flailing to stand and pull him with me, "RUN!" I managed to drag him a few steps before he mulishly dug his heels into a crack in the floor. "What are you doing?! He's gonna—"

"We can't just let him break-snap all the things!" Ink exclaimed, whipping out his enormous paintbrush. "It's badness!" I barely yanked him to the side as another barrage of strings blasted our way.

"No, _retaliating _is bad! Are you crazy? We're not fighters! We can't even—" This time, Ink reacted, grabbing my arm and jerking as black bone attacks shot from the other direction.

"How could we get outta here so super close, anyway?" Ink challenged, whirling back to face Error, a little more focused now. I felt my eye lights pale. He was right. There was no way we could safely open a portal so close to a deadly Destroyer. "We _have_ to fight!"

I'd never fought anyone in my life. I was a pacifist to the utmost. Violence never solved anything. Ink, however, evidently did not have the same principles; he flung bone attacks Error's way, a mere handful in quantity. All were shattered midair with an echoing volley. I spun Ink behind me and summoned my staff, hastily engaging a spin shield between us and death.

"Our priority is escaping, understand?" I insisted. "We needn't hurt him unless it is to save our own lives!" Ink jerked me backwards to avoid a dark beam from a black Gaster Blaster.

"Well, _I'll _have to make him _stop!_" Ink argued, taking his turn in the front to deflect and return more attacks. "He's dangerous to us and worlds and stuff! He tried to hurt _you! _ He's bad!"

I reached to yank Ink to the side. But he was too focused on keeping his aim; he resisted my pull. Sickening dread filled me as an attack cracked loudly into his arm, surprising a muffled yelp from my friend. I managed to get him behind me as I leapt in the way of the rest, my staff shield absorbing most, the rest small enough to merely hurt and not damage.

"Error, please!" I beseeched. "We mean you no harm! Stop and we will leave— we don't want to fight—!" Ink had recovered and dashed around me before I could grab him. I cried out for him to stop as he ran straight for Error.

A black blaster fired. Ink dove and rolled aside. Bounding up, he snatched his brush and swung it, knocking a handful of bone attacks away. He replied with some of his own. No avail. He was getting closer to Error. Would he really engage him?! I raced after my friend. A beam of blue threads sliced through the air. I was sure it would hit Ink. My voice caught in my throat. It could kill him…! Right as it reached out to impale him, suddenly, Ink leapt. I gaped in amazement, dumbfounded; he'd managed to clear the danger. Fear gripped me again as Error launched a new volley. Ink kicked off the cluster he had just dodged, vaulted a foot higher, and twisted. He nimbly arched back, the threads passing just behind his shoulders and just above his neck; they never touched him. Back-flipping to his feet, he landed, and in the same moment, lunged for Error.

The two went tumbling. To describe my horror would take more words than I had time to process. Error barely avoided a punch. His hands closed around Ink's scarf. Ink yelped and struggled to avoid them, flailing to escape. Error ended up on top of the heap. I couldn't reach them in time. He'd snap Ink's neck—! Ink planted his shoes on Error's chest and kicked. Escape! Before Error could regain his footing, he was suddenly covered in purple and stuck to the ground. Ink leapt up, dashed for him, his brush pulled back and swinging down—

I dove, tackling Ink just in time to save him from the ring of Gaster Blasters that flashed into existence around him. He leapt up and whacked away another beam of threads. One slipped past his defense. He jerked aside. It left a dangerously deep rift a mere half-inch below his eye. Another burst of strings freed Error from the goop.

"He sAiD it'D bE fuN," Error sneered, sending a hail of attacks down, "tO KiLl tHE ArTISt. ErADIcAte soME DuMb wORLds." He chuckled darkly as our combined efforts failed, us both taking some serious hits. "He waS rIghT. I tHiNK I'lL dO tHIs MoRE oFTen."

Caught off guard, I smacked my head on the ground as a single thread swept my legs from beneath me; a mass of them slammed into Ink. The sound warned me it had cracked ribs. All I heard was ringing. I couldn't get to him. Error aimed a torrential blast at the disoriented heap on the ground— a flash—Ink suddenly dropped a foot above me, giving a squawking yelp as he landed on top. He could teleport! Snagging and hauling me up, he pulled his fingers across his sash.

"What does this one do?" he murmured, jerking the orange paint vial from its loop.

"Ink!" I exclaimed. "This is no time for experimenting!" He chucked it at Error. It exploded. I gaped. "Just do your thing," I encouraged hastily, grabbing Ink's arm and running. "Come on, before he recovers—!"

Strings burst up from the ground, throwing stone chunks high. Our path was blocked. Beyond, I could see more burst through the columns around the boarder of the room. _Error, he's collapsing the cavern…!_ The ceiling shuddered. I heard a loud _crack_ above me. There was no escape. I couldn't save us.

Just as I slowed to try and get between Ink and danger, suddenly, he grabbed my arm, wrenched me backwards, snatched the green from his sash, shattered it at our feet, and dragged me down with him as he hit the ground himself. A bright lime protection bubble exploded up from the spot, trembling violently as chunks of stone rained down, pounding the faltering field. In an instant, Ink was up, hands pressing desperately against the inside of the claustrophobically small, fragile dome. It was cracking. The ground trembled. We would be crushed. But we were isolated from Error, I could get us out!

I focused frantically, trying to form an unnatural horizontal portal in the ground. The pebbles around suddenly plunged into nothingness as a golden swirl ate a hole in the stone; the other side, a warped view of the Doodle Sphere.

"Ink! Come on!" I exclaimed.

"We gotta… stop him…!" Ink replied, shockingly determined to stay. The fractures spread through the green walls. He didn't budge.

"Ink…! You'll be crushed!—"

The cracks shot across the dome. I swept my arm out, wrapped around Ink's legs, kicked off the side of the shield, and took the plunge. I dragged Ink, wriggling and protesting, through the rift in space as the bubble shattered and the cave collapsed.


	9. Chapter 8- Fight for What I Love

We tumbled into the Doodle Sphere. Ink continued to flail until he managed to break free of the disoriented pile we became. Leaping up, he dropped his brush to the floor, hauled me up, and exclaimed—

"Why would you do that?!" Still trying to find my balance and breath after such a catastrophic escape, I stood with hands on knees, huffing and silently counting out ten blessings to calm my nerves. Most of them involved us still being alive.

"Ink, we would have been killed if we had stayed," I reasoned wearily. "We cannot engage a Destroyer as powerful as Error." Ink stomped his foot down.

"_Applesauce!_" I blinked at him, taking a few seconds to realize it was a version of an exclamation of _'ridiculous'_ and had nothing to do with actual apples. He did not appreciate my dumbfounded silence. "Dream, for real! You're super strong! And! And I have paint!" Ink exclaimed earnestly, pointing at his arsenal of art supplies. "We can't just let Error destroy stuff! It's super bad and rude!" The Artist retrieved his discarded weapon and concluded— "So we gotta go back!" Finally straightening, I shook my head.

"We can't win this fight, Ink. We stay here." To my absolute, baffled shock, a portal swirled open a few feet away. Ink started towards it, fast. It was like he hadn't even heard me. "No!" I ordered, reaching out and grabbing his arm. "You must let this go!"

He tugged mulishly, trying to break free; he was surprisingly strong. But I could be just as stubborn. Suddenly twisting, he flinched at his own motion; his vague HP bar became visible. A quiet gasp slipped past my frown. Ink had acted fine, so I'd forgotten— he'd been injured!

"Ink, you're hurt!" Quickly assessing his stats, I added, "Rather badly…!"

My distraction enabled him to suddenly jerk free of my hold. If he went back, he'd be killed for sure! I dove for him, aiming for the back of his shirt so as to haul this unruly child to safety, but misjudged his speed and settled for his shoe. He caught himself as he nearly face-planted. Remembering the apparent fractured ribs, I deeply regretted my actions. Yet, Ink didn't seem phased. He still fought to reach the portal. I fought to prevent him. I cried out for him to hold still and be reasonable. He didn't heed me. He nearly wriggled free. I snagged his wrist and pulled him back. Despite his size, he was actually stronger than me. The more he struggled, the further his damaged HP was dropping. I had to stop him. With few options and fading strength, I realized I'd have to knock him out.

Gripping Ink's arm, I gave a hard jerk, reached out, and managed to tap my fingers to his head. Nothing happened. I balked. Tried again, more energy. Still, nothing. He wasn't responding to my sleep magic. Ink made a lunge for the portal. In a desperate, last second attempt, I yanked him back, clapped both hands on either side of his head, and gave it all I had in a riskily powerful burst of magic— he crumpled.

Confused and shaken and worried, I carefully set him down, worried I had hit him too hard. Was he hurt worse?! And how could I heal a soulless being? My magic was mostly soul based! But then, I noticed the most bizarre thing. The rift below his eye was slowly mending. I blinked. I wasn't healing him. Tugging his sleeve back, I gaped at the cracks in his shoulder gradually coming together, sealing the damage. Pushing his art sash aside, I hovered my hand over his chest, vague pinging magic searching for damage. The fractures were slowly closing. He was healing _on his own_. Slowly, numbly, I sat back on my heels. _What is… how…? _I gaped, almost a touch fearful, bewildered—_Who is he?_

Ink slept for a long time. I'm not sure how long. It seemed to be at least a day. But I didn't get tired this time. My mind was too swamped to process or relax. Eventually, finally, the Artist shifted slightly on my lap, bunching up my cape— which I'd draped atop him— in his fists and gave a quiet, content sigh. He didn't wake, but I was inexpressibly grateful at the sign; at least I hadn't plunged him into a coma. I'd never had so much trouble putting someone to sleep before.

About an hour and some fidgeting later, his eyes drifted open. I blinked at him. He blinked back, seemingly wondering how he ended up here. I'd be grateful if he'd forgotten the fight and my attempts to stop his return. Thankfully, it seemed that was the case, for there was an air of ditzy confusion surrounding the Artist. He pushed himself up, shaking the last of the sleep-haze away, and tipped his head at me, curious why I hadn't said anything yet. I couldn't find words.

"Who… are you…?" I finally breathed, beyond baffled, still. Slight surprise painted Ink's face. He pointed at himself.

"Ink," he replied carefully, curious. "Did you forget? I'm pretty forgetful but I didn't think you—" He stopped his response to tip his head further at my expression; I was just too amazed to reply.

"What you've done… your skills… healing… regeneration— it's unheard of." Ink shrugged.

"I'm told I'm pretty weird," he admitted. I shook my head, trying to make him understand.

"No, I mean, _extraordinary_," I corrected. Ink distractedly murmured this word, having fun with its interesting syllables. I fought down the questions and started with just one. "Have you fought before?" Ink looked back at me, a little distracted, but tuning in once more.

"Nope!" he replied happily. "I don't need to. Exploring's lotsa more fun, ya know. Fighting isn't very nice. Don't do it," he advised. "Unless people're being super bad. Then maybe a smack or two."

"You've never practiced? Trained?"

"Nope." I was beyond amazed.

"Yet… yet you're exceptionally magically powerful! Especially for someone without a—" I caught myself. Ink watched me, an absentminded, light smile on his face, waiting to hear what I was going to say. Sighing quietly, I dropped both my train of inquiry and my gaze and pointed at his sash. "What's this?" I asked.

"Oh," Ink replied, looking happy. "Paint. Really pretty." He pulled a vial out and twirled it skillfully between his fingers, then suddenly pulled his fist back and smashed it onto the floor. It shattered with a burst of color. "It's lotsa fun," he explained, smearing it in loops on the ground, then after counting on his fingers, with no explanation, he pointed back at the empty spot on his sash and said— "Watch, see?" A new vial materialized before my very eyes. Considering how bizarre my life had become, it was a wonder I hadn't gone a little crazy myself.

"They've always come back on their own?" I asked.

"Uh-huh, uh-huh," Ink affirmed, seemingly a tad more scattered once again since he had just shattered a new color to play with. "Lotsa-lotsa paint." I considered his behavior.

"May I see one?" I requested. Ink's head snapped up and he gaped at me, excited.

"Oh! Do you wanna paint too?!" He promptly fumbled to hand one over as quickly as possible.

I turned the orange vial around in my hands for a while, inspecting it, testing its magical readings. It was just paint. Nothing special. It was paint, right? Pinching the heart-shaped stopper and tugging it out, I smelled the liquid. Definitely paint. Tapping a finger to the opening and overturning it, I rubbed it over my thumb. Nothing happened beyond the recoloring of my fingertips. It wasn't radiating soul magic at all. What an aggravating puzzle! Recapping the vial, I offered it back to Ink. As he reached out to take it, I suddenly sensed the energy again. So… it was only special when it was near him?

This was getting far too baffling for me. I simply sat, frazzled, watching Ink contentedly paint for a while, him happily chattering to me about colors that went nicely together and how to draw spruce trees, starfish, feathers, and desert geckoes.

I knew. I knew this was someone special. Ink was far more powerful and skilled than I could have ever guessed— more than even he seemed to understand himself. I began to hope and worry that he would be someone important in the Multiverse. He was going to get out there again. He would encounter Destroyers demolishing beautiful worlds and slaughtering the innocent, and I wouldn't be able to stop him from fighting back fiercely. He wouldn't need protecting forever, true. He was beyond capable— a force to be reckoned with. But since he couldn't find his home, he'd always need a loving, patient friend. A mother hen, of sorts, so he wouldn't be forced to abandon the precious child inside.

I decided… I would fight, too, to stay by Ink's side and keep him safe. I didn't know what power I had, but with it, perhaps I could save others, and at the very least, I had to save him. So…

Maybe I'd consider the Protectorate after all.


	10. Chapter 9- To Be Complete

Weeks passed. More nerve-wracking close-calls with Error kept me on my toes, me being careful to keep Ink as far away from the Destroyer as I could. The two running into each other, however, seemed inevitable. More often than not, the battle ended with me dragging the Artist to safety and occasionally knocking him out if he refused to stay put. He was a child in every regard. Between Ink's frequent pouting over being repeatedly called a hobo, not wanting to calm down when he lost the battle, his short stature, and his scattered speech and mind, I was now nearly convinced he was closer to twelve than twenty-thirty-something.

Seeing Error's teasing was genuinely upsetting for my friend, I proposed a solution: Ink should make an outfit of his very own, one that made him happy, that fit his new Multiverse title of "the Artist." Then Error would likely start calling him by it. Why Ink considered his nickname from his nemesis so important, I did not completely understand. But since it seemed he and Error were destined to tangle often, and there was a slim chance of negotiating future peace, I supposed they should establish _some _semblance of amicable civility— or tolerance at all.

Soon, Ink was scampering up and down the rows of vendor huts in our regular haven world, comparing fabric colors while I compared the prices. I could offer up my skills and trade for supplies, but the majority of our savings came from Ink nowadays. Once he had figured that selling drawings meant he could get more art supplies, we had managed to keep a reasonable income. Today, we'd actually already run out of art money and slipped into the food budget, but I could just make meals for a few days. Ink needed this; his enthusiasm and bright smile were priceless. I was so happy.

"What's the gold for, Ink?" I asked, noting the shimmery square atop the other stacks of fabric Ink had chosen. "It doesn't match the rest of your color scheme." He poked his head up and rested his chin on top of his pile to push it down better, grinning at me.

"Another idea! Cool sparkle, ya know?" I smiled back.

"It's very pretty; gold is a favorite of mine." I considered him. "What's your favorite color?" Ink took slow, wide blinks at me, thinking very, very hard, then nodding to himself, carefully answered—

"…Yes." I giggled up to high heaven. _I suppose that means all of them. _

"That's lovely," I assured, dispelling the last of the laughter to take the top layer of his supplies from his arms, which he would surely soon drop. "Well, do you think you have all you need?" Ink nodded. I smiled. "Then let's go back so you can get started, yes?"

"Yeah!" Ink exclaimed excitedly, turning and dashing off before I could stop him. Within a few seconds, he had whirled and raced back. "We came from this way," he realized. I chuckled and followed after him.

A handful of paces later, suddenly, he stopped in his tracks, me nearly colliding with him. He was gazing to our right, curious. I followed his line of sight to a rather plain looking stand. In it sat what at first glance appeared to be a human, but after closer inspection, small goat horns could be seen poking up from the expansive charred auburn curls. Her eyes glittered with silver magic. A flowering emerald vine curled around, happily growing where it pleased, seeming to peek over her shoulder as she hovered her hands over the pages of an ancient book. As we watched, the pages began to heal, whiten and grow stronger. She had time powers.

Glancing up and noticing us watching her, she smiled and waved. Ink nearly teleported he moved so fast.

"How are you doing that stuff?!" he exclaimed in amazement. "It's super-duper cool!" I trotted over beside Ink. The lady laughed.

"Just time restoration, t's all." She inspected the Artist and his armful of fabric. "That's quite an outfit you have planned. It'll be great." Ink's eyes got even wider.

"How'd you know I'm gonna…?"

"You're a Time Reader?" I asked, drawing her attention. Her irises swirled like galaxies as she regarded me for the first time.

"Yes, I am. Nice to meet you, Dream. My name's Tempus." She held her hand out. I smiled at her and shook it.

"Lovely to make your acquaintance," I said happily, secretly trying not to giggle about Ink's mind-blown expression of bafflement. But it seemed Tempus didn't feel like letting go. Her eyebrows went up and her grip twitched. I suddenly felt concerned. Did she see something?

"Gold leaf lilies, that's impossibly long…!" she breathed, appearing slightly shaken. "No way you're actually that…" She dropped my hand, looking baffled. I understood and chuckled sheepishly.

"Oh, yes. I've… been around longer than most." Ink suddenly snapped out of his daze and planted his hands on the booth table (dropping his fabric all over it), thus breaking Tempus from her shock.

"Wait, you can read ages?!" She slowly tore her amazed gaze from me to Ink. Nodded. He promptly stuck his hand out. "My name's Ink, and I wanna know if I'm older than Dream!"

"Good gracious," I breathed to myself, quietly chuckling. Tempus also seemed to find this amusing, for she breathed a chuckle, too.

"Alright then," she murmured, shaking Ink's hand… and the color nearly left her eyes. He waited expectantly.

"I think I need to quit my job," she breathed, baffled beyond accurate expression. "Are you _serious_…?" Suddenly I was interested. I leaned in to inspect the situation.

"What is it?"

"Who's older?!" Ink inquired fervently. Tempus nervously glanced between the two of us, and to my absolute, mind-numbing shock, slowly, shakily pointed at Ink; he let out a victorious _"WHOOP!" _of delight and frolicked around me. "Haha! I'm older than you, Dream! You can't mother me anymore!" I gaped at him back to Tempus and gave a half frown.

"Are you sure?" I asked concernedly. A moment of hesitation, she gave a half nod.

"About… nearly a century older," she murmured, giving a dry gulp to try and fix her shaky voice. Ink, sadly, overheard this and gave another triumphant laugh. He sprinted off and ran in a dancing circle, giggling happily to himself. "If I'm right, you're both, like… _over an eon old,_" Tempus murmured hoarsely. "You know that's not normal, right?" I gave a nervous chuckle.

"Yes," I admitted. "I know." Looking back at Ink, a new idea came to me. "Did you see anything else about him?" I asked hopefully. Tempus nodded again, appearing to shed a small bit of her shock.

"He's… uh, really special. Current path leads to greatness, should he stay on it." She thought a moment. "It'll be a long, hard road. This life is only for the brave! But… the odds are decently in his favor for a pleasant outcome. I believe he could find his happy ending, if he perseveres. I'm curious to see who he will become, myself," she mused.

I turned a wide smile back at Ink, my heart bursting with joy. A happy ending! For Ink! I could scarcely keep from joining the Artist in his elated antics. No path was set for certain. But he had a lot going for him, it seemed. My internal celebration was put on hold when Tempus added—

"You too." I turned a bewildered glance on her. She chuckled lightly at my expression. "Yeah, you_. _You're irreplaceably significant in the grand scheme of things— both in Ink's life and the Multiverse." These words were far too heavy for my mind to absorb. She wasn't even done. "You are stronger than you think. You will bring about much future hope. It won't be easy. But you won't face it alone. Be brave, Dream."

Before I could form words, bring my baffled senses into sentences, Ink returned. It seemed Tempus wasn't worried about hearing my reply, for she bid us farewell, and we returned to the Doodle Sphere. I was preoccupied with these swimming thoughts for hours, all the while Ink whip-stitching away, asking my opinion on colors and design. Eventually he finished, chuffed beyond reason— well, truthfully, his result was certainly a masterpiece to be proud about.

The toes of his tennis shoes were covered dark spruce brown, bordered by a light yellow line, crisscrossed with yellow laces and accented on the sides with teal rectangles. Everything else was tan, printed with tiger-stripes, colored to match the toes. He'd engraved swirls and the mark of a star into the bottom of the soles, leaving a fun design whenever he trotted through a stray spot of paint.

Black leggings, decorated with bright blue, rectangular lines on the inner sides, covered up his legs and across his arms, the first ending beneath spruce-lined, tan shorts, the latter ending before fingerless gloves the color of acorns. Dark suspenders rested atop the slightly lighter chestnut brown of the shirt, sleeves the same daffodil yellow as his laces. His brush hooked securely to where the suspender straps formed an 'X' against his back. Around his waist swished his original light blue hoodie, and around his neck fluttered the long, flowing scarf, a much cleaner and brighter shade of hazelnut.

I could scarcely imagine Ink having any more fun than he already was. He was over the moon. All his frolicking had subdued his bubbling energy, though, returning him to his typical, content yet peculiarly blank self. He softly chattered to no one in particular while sewing tiny patchwork shapes with the scraps. With Ink's attention on the colorful leftovers, my mind still echoing Tempus's words, I silently gathered my supplies.

Picking up a nearby cream-white scrap Ink hadn't used and reaching for the nearby stained brush on the ground, I snatched some scissors and cut out two rectangles. Overlaying one atop the other, I very carefully drew out the old familiar Delta Rune design. Threading a needle, I pulled my gloves off, and placed a badge on top of each. I gave a soundless sigh, gazing at the shimmering symbols. Was I really ready for this…? I ended my indecision by decisively plunging my needle through the fabric and attempting to sew the badge on.

"Oh, here," Ink said, making me yelp and jump— I hadn't realized he'd been watching over my shoulder— "lemme help. You're not super good at that."

A hybrid of a light sigh and a chuckle slipped free and I handed my project over. As he took it, from his other hand, Ink produced a small, beautifully sewn, slightly stuffed gold star. It was from the shimmery fabric he had impulsively added to his supplies. He held it up over his eye, then tipped his head to the side to blink at me.

"Here, just like yours!" he exclaimed, meaning my eye lights. "Super cool! For you!"

As simple as it was, it was suddenly the most precious, thoughtful gift I could remember ever receiving. I held it in cupped hands, turning the glistening treasure and feeling a smile warm my face. Ink didn't take much notice of my murmurs of thanks and appreciation, for he was too focused on his new project. Trading the gift for my gloves, Ink pulled the sloppy stitches out and proceeded to dip-dive-whip the thread in exquisite patterns around the edge of the badge, and over the lines I had shakily painted on. Embroidered Delta Rune symbols and straight-stitched badges attested to his masterful skills. Done within minutes, he gave his work an approving nod, then held it out to me and asked—

"What's this?"

"It's to show that I've decided to join the Protectorate," I explained, accepting back the gloves and slipping them on once more. "It's the organization Hazel told us about."

"Ooh, that," Ink murmured, nodding to himself, absentmindedly sticking a bright blue scrap in his mouth. "Don't remember much, but if you're in it, it must be fun. I wanna join," he decided past the mouthful of felt, nodding. "What's it all about?" I gave him a slight smile, gently pulling the edge of the cloth, prompting him to spit it back out; I couldn't seem to break him of the weird habit.

"Well… you have to be ready to aid anyone, anytime, whether it be dangerous battles or minor disputes, to be there whenever someone needs help." Ink hummed to himself, settling for tying knots with the abandoned fabric strips.

"Huh," he murmured. "That doesn't sound very fun, actually. What's the point?"

"People need protecting, Ink," I explained gently. "I suppose it's like being a friend. You and I survive because we look out for each other. Not everyone has a buddy to take care of them. That's what the Protectorate is for! You don't have to join just because I have." Ink had a slightly hollow smile on his face, simply observing me as I explained this, thinking hard.

"I'm kinda messed up, aren't I?" he said simply, more a statement than a question. I was taken aback.

"What are you talking about?" I asked concernedly. "What do you mean?" Ink considered his answer, tipping his head aside.

"Well… you care about the people _in_ the worlds n' stuff. I just care about worlds. But that's not a normal thing for people to feel, is it? Am I supposed to care?" He turned his gaze up at the drifting color clouds. "There's a word for that, right? What is it? A… apacth… no, apa… ath…?"

I was slightly unsettled, troubled, but empathetic for this apathetic soul who knew he was lacking.

"Apathy," I prompted softly. Ink snapped his fingers in the air and nodded.

"Ah, yes. That. I am kinda apathy." I sighed.

"The usage is actually, 'I am kind of apathetic.'" Turning the star in my hands, though, fingers tracing absentmindedly across the tips, I admitted— "A lot of people are. Not just you, Ink. But I don't think it has to be that way. And, I don't think you truly are, at your core." I met his empty, searching, yet slightly curious gaze and assured— "You're not messed up, Ink. You're just… incomplete. A sketch that doesn't have all its color yet!" At this analogy, hope sparked like a burst of fireworks in the Artist's eyes. A ripple of joy washed through his expression and he smiled.

"Oh, okay! That makes sense!" He grinned at me. "You keep painting, then, k? Teach me, I'll get better! I'll be super colorful soon! You'll see!" At these happy words, I couldn't help but smile wide myself. Yes, he had a happy ending in store. We'd get there, someday. Someday we'd arrive, colorful and happy and free. It was only a matter of time.


	11. Chapter 10- Colorful Stay With You

So, my story went from prince to "Protector." It seemed it was where my destiny had been leading all along, for as soon as I put the badges on and stepped into the Multiverse… I could _hear it_. I heard the hopes and dreams rising and falling, being born and being broken, all across the universes. I heard people calling for help and rejoicing in victories. It was a responsibility I could not easily iterate— and certainly not to Ink.

Ink did not understand why I took it upon myself to fight others' battles for them. He found it somewhat pointless. He maintained that he was only interested in battling Error, because Error "was a destructive meanie who called us rude names." Indeed, Error still scoffed at the short Artist, but did finally seem to realize Ink was serious, seeing his new design and the self-confidence said outfit brought. Ink was determined as ever. With his skills increasing, he had become a genuine hindrance to Error. Plus, now, _I_ was there, fighting right beside my friend. We still lost battles. But we were still _alive_, which was the important part.

For months, we fought, and failed. We regrouped and tried again. I strove for peace in the Multiverse and Ink continued to wonder why it mattered to me. Eventually, his own contentedness began to get him down. He couldn't muster the will to join me on my adventures. Whenever I recounted them to him, I could see the anxiety buried behind his curiosity. The Artist wanted to help, but the few times he did tag along, he ended up simply watching— he couldn't be bothered with events outside his own life. Yet my example continued to haunt him.

I didn't know what to tell Ink. I knew his social and emotional struggles were due to his lack of a physical soul, but to explain that concept to him _now _would surely be devastating. If he learned it was his own actions that had left him empty, he would never forgive himself. It was blatantly obvious how he longed to love and be loved but didn't know how. Despite his selfish ways, I truly had come to deeply love this ditzy little art child. Realizing that my own efforts to protect him had in turn brought him distress tore me up. What was I supposed to do? What _could _be done?

Clinging to the memory of Tempus's words, I smothered the questions down and pressed on while I waited for things to get better for Ink. It seemed the opposite was inevitable. Day after day passed without improvement. His confused discouragement grew each time someone called my name for help and I went. Now, very little I said lifted the burden from his mind. The worries spilled into his art, reflected in the colors and subjects, all the way down to the way he gripped his pencil. I was worried sick. Finally, one day— he broke under his distress. And it was the best thing that could have happened for him.

"Hi, Ink!" I called, stepping down from a portal. "I'm back!"

Ink glanced up from his sketchbook. I blinked at the papers around him. They were scrambled, senseless scribbles in a chaotic array of colors. The pages closest to him were splashed black.

"Win?" he asked, monotone, either unaware I had noticed the mess or unalarmed that I had. I nodded in answer to his question. He nodded, too, and after a moment, went back to scrawling a fistful of colors across a page. I fought down a sigh, walked over, and sat beside him.

"What are you drawing?" I asked. "Abstract, today?" I jumped as he suddenly slammed his handful of pencil crayons down on the page, as if doing so might stab the center of his problems.

"Was supposed to be a bird," Ink murmured sadly, now dragging the lines jerkily across the paper. "But that's…" He thought for a moment. "Seventeen tries, all bad. No good." The colored pencils clattered across the ground as he planted his palm against the page— summoned paint magic— and smeared a black handprint across the ruined drawing.

"I'm sorry, Ink," I consoled, eyeing the blackened project as he slid it to the side, tore another sheet from the sketchbook, and began his eighteenth attempt. He couldn't seem to focus; the lines went astray within the minute. This time, frustrated, he crumpled the page up and wound his arm back. But I grabbed his wrist before he could throw it. "No; that won't help."

"Why not?!" he argued, not sure if he was upset over my intervention or not. I stood, pulling him with me.

"You're upset about something. What's on your mind?" I encouraged, pushing his tense shoulders down, taking and returning a deep breath as a sigh, hoping to get him to do the same. He didn't follow suit. "Just, calm down. What's bothering you so badly it has you chucking sketches across the Sphere?"

Ink frowned at me, a tremble in the expression and childish fury behind his eyes. Suddenly, he clenched his fists, slammed the paper ball onto the ground at my boots, let out a strangled exclamation of frustration, and stomped his foot.

"T'sall messed up, Dream!" he exclaimed, distraught. "I'm no good! No good at all!"

"Oh, Ink, that's just not true—"

"No! N-No, you're being nice! You're always nice! I _never _am! I'm different. Not good, no good, all messed up!" Tears welled in his eyes, angry tears of frustration. I hadn't realized this was all quite that upsetting for him. Perhaps I should have acted sooner. "You said! You said I'd get my color. When?! Will I ever be all done?! Why don't I care like you do?!" He shook his head, finally finding some semblance to his rant. "I feel like I could be! Be… be kind, like you! And feel things! But! But, I don't know _how, _like, _how?!_ I really want… I wanna be… to feel… to just…!" Ink gave an exasperated huff. "I dunno, be normal?! Feel, like, _anything?! _I wanna… I wanna be colorful!"

He hadn't slept for a couple months. I'd noticed, the longer he went without napping, the more tangled his mind got. His thoughts scattered and he panicked easily. To say this frenetic rant broke my heart would be a woeful understatement. Yet any chance of me talking him down from this state or trying to convince him to take a rest was silenced as my mind churned for a solution. No more could I wait in silence. I was going to _do _something, if only I could figure out what. Ink let out a whimper when I didn't reply, only merely watching and pondering instead.

"Dream?!" he urged frantically. "Any ideas?!" Against my bidding, my gaze dropped to his paint sash, a premature gesture.

"… Maybe," I admitted quietly. Ink's expression melted fast as a snowflake in summer. It settled into confusion and he tipped his head at me.

"Whatchu on about?" he murmured, still scattered from his breakdown. I pointed.

"May I see one, please?" Confused, Ink complied without question, handing over the first paint vial, the yellow one. I turned it over in my hands for a minute. Ink, perplexed, patiently watched me all along. "Ink?" I asked. "May I ask you a question you might not like?"

"What's that supposta' mean?" he murmured.

"It might make you feel sad."

"Too late, already sad," he pointed out, frowning. "You're supposed to make it better, you always know how."

Worst case scenario, he got depressed and had another meltdown. I sighed, deciding answers would be worth the possibility of dealing with a childish tantrum or soothing away a panic attack. I might be able to make it all better, like he hoped— if I could only get answers.

"You told me you destroyed your own soul because you were afraid of being forgotten," I began. Ink's slightly startled, nervous expression told me he didn't remember our original conversation. "I just wondered why."

"Dun wanna be forgotten…" Ink muttered, seeming ill-at-ease.

"I understand, Ink. But, why? Why don't you?" Ink appeared distressed, now, not sure himself.

"'Cause… would be so lonely? No one knows… no one to care…! What would be any point? No one to do stuff with, no one to be important for."

"You mean, you wanted to be important to someone, or, someone to be important to you?" I clarified. Ink twitched his fingers in the air, as if trying to grab his answer out of nothingness.

"Both? Like, to be needed, useful! Be friends! Nice friends! Always so nice. A reason to continue…"

"How did you know you wanted friends if you think you never had any? Did you see people having friends and want some yourself?" Ink considered, then shook his head fervently.

"No-no, never any people. Only me and him. And he didn't know me. No care, no care. No sense? Can't remember?"

"'Only me and him'?" I asked.

"He's all gone now," Ink said sadly. "He had no color, just none. No one there. Maybe was… hallucinating… from the start?" He thought for a moment. "I think… I might be kinda a little crazy…" I didn't know who the "he" Ink spoke of might be, but I realized it might get me my answer.

"Would you have been happy if 'he' had been your friend?" Ink lit up at this.

"Super-duper happy! I really hoped he would! I was always so determined then sad when he wasn't, and then he was gone, and it was all like a dream…"

"You 'hoped'…?" I clarified. Ink nodded. I felt a surge of hope of my own at this discovery. "Then, it's not just my presence… You really _are_ capable of feeling emotions of your own." As I looked back down at the happy yellow paint in my hands, I admitted— "I do believe you could again." I held up the glass vial for Ink to see. "And I think it has to do with these." Ink blinked blankly at me.

"You're not makin' much sense, Dream. Paint? Are you crazy, too?" I sighed lightly.

"Maybe," I admitted. "But, I don't know. There's something odd about that art sash of yours." I pulled open the magical readings over the yellow vial. "Whenever I'm holding this, it's just regular paint." I shook the glass; nothing happened. "But it has a strong aura of soul energy surrounding it…" I placed the vial on the Artist's palm and it began to glimmer slightly. "…whenever it's close to you."

Ink inspected his paint with new interest. He shook it like a glow stick, gaping at the brightness. He flipped it between his fingers, twirling it nimbly, then brought it up to eye level and blinked at it. Suddenly, he impulsively popped the top off and downed it. Initially, I was shocked and slightly miffed that my warnings about paint chemicals had no effect on him. We'd been over this! Ink looked surprised himself and appeared to brace for a light lecture— but I stopped. I watched my friend for a minute. There was something new in his gaze I couldn't quite lay a finger on. Ink gave me a disconcerted, half-frown.

"Did you even notice—?"

"Is that why you do that?" I breathed. "Is that why you eat colorful things…?!" The corner of his mouth twitched up, but he didn't seem to realize it. A brief, tiny flicker of bright yellow in his white eye lights sparkled. My own widened. I had an idea. A wild, outlandish hope. "Drink the rest," I allowed. Ink gawked at me. I gestured at the sash. "Come on, drink the rest!" I exclaimed excitedly, reaching and poking one from its loop, tossing the stopper aside and holding it out to him. "Hurry up!"

"… definitely crazy," Ink whispered to himself, but hesitantly accepted the vial I held and chugged it.

The other colors followed. The more he drank, the brighter and more vibrant the paints glowed. I noticed more and more hints of color and emotion in his expressions. After insisting he go for round two, and seeing that the white had been drowned by kaleidoscopic shards of color in his eyes, I took a step back and regarded Ink. Indeed, he seemed to realize something was different. He stood still, curious, blinking through scattered mosaics of psychedelic colors. He opened his mouth to say something, then shut it, then tried again, and remained silent, again.

"… kinda feels like…?"

He suddenly jerked rigid, eyes wide with shock, and clapped both hands over his mouth. Thick black suddenly gushed torrentially from between his fingers, surprising him to his knees. I gave a cry of dismay, dashing to his side. I had been wrong! I'd made him sick!

"Ink!" I exclaimed, grabbing his shoulder, terrified half witless, tears of fear blurring my sight. "I'm so sorry! What should I do!? Please, are you—?"

"I'm alright!" he assured breathlessly, the torrent stopping as suddenly as it had come. I wasn't convinced yet. Just as he was starting to lift his head, about to look over at me, it happened again. But before I could scoop him up and make a dash to find a Healer, he chuckled softly.

"Ink…?" I murmured, concerned, yet feeling a spark of hope once more.

He was still staring at his dripping hands. I couldn't see his face. As I watched, the black simply evaporated. He took a shaky sigh, then giggled again. Another sigh, a content one, this time. He shook his head, then finally lifted it and looked at me.

"Oh," I murmured, suddenly immensely excited. "Hello, you look…!"

"Hi, Dream," Ink breathed, laughing, a new, deep understanding in his gaze. He then replied— "Happy?" with bubbling excitement in his voice, triumphant hope and joy in his eyes— his now bright, colorful eyes. "Yes. Happy!"

After a moment of gaping silence, we both suddenly laughed, awed, overjoyed. To the left, his eye light was an electric blue oval, the other a sparkling yellow star. Every time he blinked back the pastel, happy tears, they changed shape and hue. There was such a depth there, in his gaze. He was looking at me, not _through_ me like he usually did, or simply at the colors in my eye lights, or the sparkle in my cape, or at something over my shoulder. He was _seeing me, _almost for the first time. He was _here, _fully conscious and aware, instead of having only one foot in the present and his head in the clouds. He seemed to have the same thought I did.

"Oh, wow. Wowie…!" Ink chuckled to himself in amazement, glancing around. "Everything makes so much more sense. It's coherent." He finished looking around and grinned at me, concluding— "This is real…" Then, with a wide, excited grin, Ink suddenly pulled me up. "Dream, Dream! Could we go to the world with the special sky? Please?"

Curious, I complied, opening a portal. Ink grabbed my hand and hauled me in after him within two blinks of it appearing. We raced each other over the path, Ink winning by mere seconds. He skidded to a stop over our regular patch of grass, gazing up. There was a minute of silence. I watched and waited, confused. Then, Ink laughed.

"Okay… this place still doesn't make sense." He flopped backwards to the ground. "Care to enlighten me, Dream?" I replied with a chuckle of my own, dropping down beside him.

"I'd love to. But I don't understand it, either," I admitted, us both laughing now.

We stayed like that for a while, beaming up at the colorful sky, full of dancing stars and silver clouds. Every few minutes, Ink would ask a couple questions, usually profoundly simple. My answers provided threads of understanding, tethering him to reality and bringing clarity to his former chaos. He seemed to be working out where he fit into the world, and what was real, and what was magical and natural. I'm unsure how much time blended together. I lost count of our conversations, until, at one point—

"Dream?"

"Yes, Ink?"

"Do you think Error needs help, kinda like I did?" This was a surprising question to say the least. I leaned on my elbow to catch a glimpse of Ink's face over the edge of the long grass. He was… kindly worried. Thoughtful. Maybe a touch sad.

"… Perhaps so," I eventually admitted. "People tend to hurt others when they themselves have been hurt." Ink nodded slowly to himself, treating this new perspective with precious importance. Before I could ponder over the wonderful implications of Ink worrying over his former enemy, he let out a murmur of revelation.

"Nightmare is your brother, isn't he?" My gaping expression was glued stiff by my surprise. I tried to form a question or three, but I couldn't gather any words. I gave up on expressing my shock as Ink looked over and chuckled. "You're gonna catch flies," he teased, reaching over and lightly bopping my chin up. "A nod would suffice." Numbly, I nodded, then finally found my voice.

"How did you…?" Ink gave a slanted frown, an expression of concentration, up at the sky again as he worked it out.

"Well, I thought you were just opposites at first. Except, you don't ever hurt him, which is pretty dangerous— but it's like you're not worried about yourself? Despite the times he tries to really hurt you, you don't ever get mad. Only sad. You get kinda sad whenever he shows up, and you're not sad much. You're always super brave! From all the universes I've seen, that kind of stubborn love is only found in families. I figured you were probably related. From there, 'brothers' seemed a reasonable conclusion."

_What would he say if he found out what really happened to Night? _my mind whispered condemningly, sending a motionless shiver through my bones. _What would he think of you if he knew it was all your fault? _My world sank. What would he think of me? What if he learned the truth? The thought of him discovering my past was crushing. I came to the sickening decision that I should probably tell him myself and beg for forgiveness. If he found out on his own, he'd never—

"…It's not your fault." That silenced my anxious thoughts. I blinked at Ink, wondering what I'd missed. He noticed and reiterated his point. "You act like it's your fault Nightmare's corrupted. But you can't punish yourself for things out of your control."

"No, it's true, Ink. I really should have done something. I was an awful brother to him, honest. It really was my fault he—"

"You can't convince me you are responsible for Nightmare being bad," he interrupted. "You obviously love him so much. And he obviously _doesn't _return the sentiment." Those words simply hurt. His point was unclear until he concluded— "That proves the fault is with Nightmare. For anyone to hate you when you are so forgiving and nice shows _they're_ the awful ones." He gave a brief nod of finality. "It's not your fault. You love too generously to be anything less than gold deep down." Ink, unfortunately, noticed my hand go to my face. "You know," he observed calmly, "for someone so strong and brave, you sure do cry a lot." I gave up trying to hide it and wiped away the uninvited tears.

"What, and _you_ don't?" Ink gave a murmur of understanding.

"Good point," he admitted. I couldn't help but give a weird chuckle, a sound blanketed by the weight of touched tears and slowed by slowly-melting fears.

"There are tears on my face, yet I'm smiling. This sentient version of you is too smart and still just as sweet. I wasn't expecting something so profound." Ink scowled at me.

"You still sound like my mom," he grumbled. I laughed for real.

"Well, you'll just have to get used to it."

_Or… not_, I suddenly realized. I missed Ink's snort of a scoff and eye-roll as I pondered this, feeling slightly… sad? He was alright now. He didn't need me looking out for him. And, whoever the 'he' Ink spoke of was, it was probably someone important to him. He'd want to find that person. It might even be a family member. Maybe… _his_ own brother? I hadn't considered the possibility Ink had a Papyrus in his life. But it was plausible.

"… Speaking of family," I murmured quietly, "we should probably find yours, so you can go home."

At the odd silence, I turned and glanced back at Ink. He had the weirdest look on his face. It was some strange mix of stress, confusion, fear, hope, and indecision. There were hints of a forced smile, or perhaps one surprised frozen at my words. A bizarre reaction, for sure.

"I… but, th— it'd be… no, I mean, I wouldn't think… t's no…"

"Ink, it's alright! You don't have to worry. We'll find them somehow! We've solved one impossible mystery together. I don't see why we couldn't—"

"N-no!" I blinked at him in surprise. "I don't…" he tried, then stopped again, screwing up his face in concentration. "I don't think… I _want _to go back?" My gaping expression spelt my shock. "I mean, I'll go! I'll find home if you think it's for the best!" Ink quickly assured. "You understand lots of things, a lot better than I do! But…" He suddenly looked rather sad. "I can only guess I left for a reason. I feel… I feel like 'home' isn't back wherever I came from…" He sent me a sideways expression, a mix of a grin and a confused frown. "_This _is home. Well, not this hill," he explained, spreading his arms. "But, but _here. _In the Multiverse. In the Doodle Sphere, with you! That's home for me." He looked down, dejectedly fiddling with a dandelion, weaving grass blades around its stem. "You probably have somewhere to be, though, I guess… I should have thought of that sooner. You must have been journeying somewhere! You put it on pause for a long time for my sake. B-but— you're _always _welcome in the Sphere! It's your home, too! Wherever you go! If, if you have… to go. If you… want to come back… but you don't have to go! You should stay if you want! But if you don't—"

I cut him off with a hug I couldn't hold back any longer.

"I was hoping you'd want me to stay!" I exclaimed. "I don't know what I'd do without you!" He muttered something indiscernible, possibly pure gibberish, in relief, and gave a short laugh.

"I was _really worried _there for a minute," he admitted.

"Ink, but… are you _sure?" _I asked, letting him go and watching his reaction. "What about the 'he' you said you wanted to be your friend? Do you remember where he is? Won't you miss him?" Ink, surprisingly, froze. His eye lights flickered out for a brief moment. I observed his lightly confused, blank expression. He blinked.

"Who…?" he murmured. I tipped my head at him.

"You said there was someone you wanted to be important to, or, they to be important to you— you tried to be friends with him. Do you think it was your brother?"

"Dream, I…" He glanced from side to side, suddenly intensely distracted. Finally he looked back at me, concerned, now. "I… can't remember. I can't remember… _anything…_"

"What are you talking about?" I asked, puzzled.

"All I remember clearly… is you… finding me in the Void. Before that, there's _nothing_…" His expression worsened. "I said there was someone else? Who was he? I don't know who 'he' is. It feels like… it was all just dream. It's fading so fast— did it… even happen…?"

"Ink…" I prompted. He met my gaze. I took a deep breath and slowly let it out. This time, he followed suit. "There you go," I encouraged gently. Ink calmed down a bit, pondering hard, now.

"… Maybe… he was imaginary… all along," Ink murmured in a whisper. I evaluated his nervous uncertainty. I wondered if he really believed that. I wondered if he'd ever remember. He looked up at me with a surprising, unexpected spark of clarity. "I don't think he was my family, though." I gave Ink an inquisitive frown.

"If you can't remember who the 'he' is, how are you sure?"

"Because I don't remember the feeling of someone caring about me. I would remember _that_." He grinned at me. "But it's alright! You stubbornly cared when no one else ever would! You're family enough for me."

This new Ink might not be done surprising tears out of me today. I barely fought them down as I stared at him with widening eyes. _Family? I have family again…? _He seemed to read my poorly-hidden reaction and let out a snicker-snort. He then leaned over and hugged me, muttering _"crybaby." _I returned the embrace.

"You're my family, too, Ink. I won't ever leave you." I could sense his smile over my shoulder.

"I'm glad you found me," he said after a moment. My grip tightened as I agreed—

"Me too, Ink. Me too."


	12. Epilogue

That day, beneath the churning sky of colors, the Multiverse came to a turning point; we just didn't know it yet. Our paths combining had set in motion far more than I could have ever imagined. Everything changed, slowly at first— then all at once.

From the moment Ink stitched blue Protectorate badges onto his sleeves and leapt with me into the universes, the war against the Destroyers began to shift. Ink joining the Protectorate marked the beginning of a new, bright dawn for the forces of good. I thought he had been powerful before. Now? He was unstoppable. Yet, his strength was tempered by mercy. Even Error was baffled at Ink's new demeanor. I sensed that, given time, we could someday rescue the broken Destroyer from the dark world he had made for himself. Yes, Nightmare goaded him on and encouraged him to destroy, driving him further away from our outstretched offer of forgiveness. But I hadn't given up on saving him, too. One day, my brother would be reunited with me. I just had to hold on to hope.

Weeks, months, years. The war waged on. We pressed forward. Worlds rose and fell, shifting and merging, bringing life out of the void. Our names were known wherever we went. Ink and Dream, the Protectors! World-savers! But in reality, below the floating color clouds of the Doodle Sphere, lived two simple friends who promised to be family forever, fighting for freedom and peace. We weren't really anything special. We were just happy to be alive, together, making new friends daily and pushing back the darkness. We longed to do more, to make a real difference. Healing the hurt was just as important as fighting to prevent it. But what could anyone do with broken worlds and lost souls?

It wasn't until a small, monochromatic human child name Core Frisk appeared to us did our hope finally start to come true. The human told us of the Omega Timeline, a world they had carved from the Void. It was empty, now. But they wanted us to help fill it. They wanted us to fill it with refugees, wanderers, friendly faces and Protectors, orphans and the forgotten and the lonely. It would be a refuge for those without a home. And we were the first two people to learn of it.

I still laugh to this day, remembering Ink's reaction. While I had been struggling to contain my bubbling excitement as C. Frisk left, Ink had slowly turned to me, and with a face blank with shock and eyes wide as saucers, he breathed— "They've got… _no color…!_"— To which I simply laughed.

That was a long time ago, now. I'm not quite sure how long. I tried to keep track of the years, but doubted it really mattered. Forever was ahead. Looking back, I smiled. I never expected my path would have such a long, happy stretch. I didn't even walk it alone. I had so many friends, so many acquaintances and allies— and I always had Ink.

I sat on the edge of the sky cliff, humming to myself, reminiscing over my journey. _I am protected and loved on every side, _I pondered. _ How did this come to be my story? I don't deserve such a happy life. Yet it is mine to live, despite my past mistakes. _The lyricless songs of my childhood still filled the air around me as I smiled. _I am so blessed._

And just like that, after so long, I remembered.

_ "__Count your many blessings, name them one by one. When you're feeling down, sing this song, and find a smile to fix your frown… Count your many blessings, name them one by one. Count your blessings… see all that the Maker has done."_

I blinked, my gaze now drawn upwards at the colorful sky. _The Maker…_

My thoughts were interrupted, though, by a vague sense that someone had called my name. Later I would realize, it hadn't been an audible call. Standing, I listened for the name of the world where I was needed. I didn't recognize the title. I blinked. _Is this a new world?_

"UnderSwap…?"

~'/,~

Hello my dear readers!

I hope you enjoyed the story. Thank you for reading this far! I know this came out of nowhere, but it has been on my heart to write for a while, especially now, considering where I currently am with HopeTale S2. This story has got to be one of my most treasured. Now that it draws to a close, I feel like I've gotten to know Dream much better. My heart smiles at his bravery. Joku, for certain, has made a wonderful impact on the Undertale Multiverse. I am so grateful for her wonderful imagination.

If you all would like, I could add an Afterstory, continue for a few chapters, introducing Blueberry to Ink and Dream and spin the tale of how the three of them became a team. I might simply focus on my other writings, but I wanted to extend that option to my readers.

I hope to see you in HopeTale, or between the pages of my other stories. I love you all! Stay hopeful, and be brave! Your story has yet to be told 3

~FilledWithHope


End file.
